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C3K 

A COLLECTION 2,1 



OP 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 



IN 



PROSE AND VERSE. 



BY JAMES M. SAUNDERS. 



'■ Alii multa perficiunt; nos nonnulla conamur." 



PHILADELPHIA: 

a 

J. CRISSY— 4 MINOR STREET. 
1834. 






I LAI t^ i« 



V^IUHi«tl l'«Ml^l«*aM. 



PriDMd br J. Ctian A G. CaadaMA~4, Minor mnm. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



> The author sends iJiis little volume to tlak 
world, without presuming to intimate, or daring 
to believe, that it will secure to him the small- 
est award of honour or fame. But of this, 
however, he is certain, that were the motives 
which have led to its publication known, it 
would receive, from the critical, toleration, and 
from the liberal, patronage, 
Bristol College^ Feh. 1834. 



• BENJAMIN ABBOT. L. L. D 

rviKctPAL OP mitirt kxetis ACAorMT, 

A« a thbuttf of an cnUrfMl gntilude fat Km kind 
biilnictkNM and parrnUl carr, thk rvkmm b rMpcd- 
tally and aflccttonatcly UMnribeJ. 

J. M. 8. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 

"Oh, when to rest the wearied day retires, 
How, on Grod's temple burn the unwasting fires." 

If there is any form of human pleasure more noble 
and exalted than all the rest, it is certainly that which 
arises from a contemplation of the heavens, and from a 
study of the Divinity in their holy fires. They present 
to the eye whatever is beautiful and attractive, as they 
burn and blazon on the bosom of creation, and the study 
of them affords to the human understanding a refined 
and lofty exercise. But if there were no other induce- 
ments to the love and contemplation of the bright 
worlds, than the subhme truths they tend to inculcate, 
and the powerful and persuasive testimony they bear to 
the existence of a ruling Providence, surely these would 
be enough. I cannot believe that they have shone for 
so many ages merely to enlighten the earth, or that they 
wheel through their bewildering paths only to gladden 
the eye with their beauty; no, their proper force and 
a2 



3 



^^^.8^< 



Entered according to act of congress, in the year 1834, by James 
M. Saunders, in the clerk's office of the district court for the Eastern 
District of Pennsylvania. 



Printed by J. Crissy & G. Goodman — 4, Minor street. 



ADVEETISEMENT. 



. The -author sends iJiis little volume to the 
-world, without presuming to intimate, or daring 
to believe, that it will secure to him the small- 
est award of honour or fame. But of this, 
however, he is certain, that were the motives 
which have led to its publication knoAvn, it 
would receive, from the critical, toleration, and 
from the liberal, patronage, 
BHstGl College^ Feb. 1834. 



TO 

BENJAMIN ABBOT, L. L. P. 

PRINCIPAL OF PHILIPS EXETER ACADEMY, 

A-S a tribute of an enlarged gratitude for his kind 
instructions and parental care, this volume is respect- 
fully and affectionately inscribed. 

J. M. S. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



CONTEMPLATION OP THE HEAVENS. 

"Oh, when to rest the wearied day retires, 
How, on God's temple burn the unwasting fires." 

If there is any form of human pleasure more noble 
and exalted than all the rest, it is certainly that which 
arises from a contemplation of the heavens, and from a 
study of the Divinity in their holy fires. They present 
to the eye whatever is beautiful and attractive, as they 
burn and blazon on the bosom of creation, and the study 
of them affords to the human understanding a refined 
and lofty exercise. But if there were no other induce- 
ments to the love and contemplation of the bright 
worlds, than the sublime truths they tend to inculcate, 
and the powerful and persuasive testimony they bear to 
the existence of a ruling Providence, surely these would 
be enough. I cannot believe that they have shone for 
so many ages merely to enlighten the earth, or that they 
wheel through their bewildering paths only to gladden 
the eye with their beauty; no, their proper force and 
a2 



6 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

meaning must certainly be found in connexion with 
religion and piety. There is a constancy, a calmness, a 
settled beauty and serenity in all their operations, that 
tells of an eye that never slumbers, and of a goodness 
that is eternal. The flowers may fade — the foliage 
wither and fall — the glories of nature dry up and perish, 
but they remain fixed and unalterable. Days of dark- 
ness may gather around us, and the sharp edge of ca- 
lamity dissever our hopes; our prosperous condition in 
life may be changed, and unmingled trial become our 
lot; we may be grieved, disheartened, wearied with the 
world, its sickly vanities, and depressing toils: yet in- 
animate nature will pursue its destined course; the sun 
rise and set in the heavens; the pale moon wax and 
wane ; all move and roll onward in their wonted beauty, 
order, and harmony, and convey to the desponding spirit 
the truth, that above earth's sorrow all is peace. For- 
lorn widow, art thou doomed to journey amid the toils 
and tears of this earthly pilgrimage, unprotected by a 
companion and friend? be assured that He, who whirls 
the planets in their circles, restrains the sun in his course 
of light, and forever guides and governs the motions of all 
the rolling worlds, will not leave thee in the storms of 
adversity, when the sun of thy happiness is eclipsed by 
the dark clouds of earthly trouble. Bereaved orphan, 
have they who watched over thy cradled infancy, and 
counselled thee in thy tender years, gone to repose in 
the ashes of the tomb, and left thee a wanderer in this 
selfish and inconstant world "? turn thine eye from the 
shadows of time to those blissful regions above, where all 
tears are forever wiped away. Perhaps in some bright star 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 7 

that now gems the night, the spirits of thy departed 
kindred have found a peaceful sanctuary; seek, then, 
a resting place in those eternal habitations, the abode of 
cherubim and seraphim, the mansions of thy Father and 
thy God. Weeping mourner of every name and con- 
dition, let the continued order and tranquillity of the 
heavens be to thee a source of undying consolation. 
They tell us of the parental guardianship, and watchful 
care of Him, who is properly denominated "the Father 
of light," and who liveth from everlasting to everlasting, 
without a shadow of change. In seasons of temptation, 
in seasons of perplexity, trouble, and sorrow, when our 
hearts are cast down within us, and we wish for support, 
we may gaze on the glorious spheres above, and derive 
from their contemplation a solace for misfortune and a 
balm for pain. A study of them is not only a remedial 
but a preventive from sorrow. It takes away from afflic- 
tion its withering power; it blunts the barbed edge of 
grief, and imbues the mind with those tranquil feelings 
which enable it to think of calamity without alarm, and 
to endure it without anguish. Thus we are enabled to 
hold an intercourse with the Deity, through the medium 
of these his exalted works, and trace the footsteps of his 
Providence in the regions of their existence. And what 
is its tendency but to cherish in the mind a sense of the 
presence of an infinite being; to fill the spirit with all 
that it can comprehend of the great, the powerful, the 
good; to draw us near to infinite mercy, and to associate 
ones-self with infinite strength^ Such an intercourse 
cannot fail to augment our comfort; for it reveals to us 
a being who is every where present, the gracious head 



B miscelLaNeoits pieces in prose. 

of the universe, whose goodness is steadily operating for 
the relief and comfort of all within the reach of his care, 
and who will protect when dangers threaten, or storms 
of calamity hang over our heads. 

But let us not forget that we were made for something 
that is far above and beyond those circling spheres. 
The time is coming when they shall pass away, and be 
consumed in the flames of universal nature. When the 
last shrill sound of that trump shall be heard undulating 
through the heavens, this world we inhabit, and the 
brighter worlds above us, will all be destroyed in the 
general fire; their glory and splendour converted into 
ashes, and nothing but blackness and confusion will be 
seen. But man, the noblest work of God, the well- 
beloved of heaven, endowed with intellect and moral 
powers, has views of existence beyond the present 
scene. His being is not confined to this present earthly 
body, or to the present ever-changing world. Though 
the foundations of the earth be moved beneath his feet — 
though the pillars of heaven be shaken above his head — 
though the everlasting hills shall smoke and melt away, 
yet his soul shall survive the chaotic waste and universal 
ruin, uninjured and imperishable. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 



THE WIND, 

"AH — from the evening's plaintive sigh, 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, 

Breathe forth the language of his power." 

There is a grandeur in the reckless upheavings of 
the ocean when the tempest arouses its secret depths; 
there is a terror in the convulsive throes of the giant earth- 
quake when its mysterious energies shake the globe ; and 
a beauty in the calm sunshine, when it sheds its manthng 
glory over field and mountain, lake and river, that lifts 
the soul aloft with enthusiasm, or depresses it with fear, 
as their many and various phenomena appear: but there 
is another of the great and living intelligences of nature, 
that claims a more extended dominion, and awakens a 
separate and untaught feeling. It is the viewless, yet 
mighty wind: whether breathing in the gentle air of 
summer, or swelling in the strivings of the winter storm; 
whether it lightly stirs the leaf on the boughs of the 
forest, or tears the oak from its ancient bed, alike it tells 
of majesty and power, and goes forth amid the works of 
creation, mingling with the elements and moving them 
at its will. We feel it in the faint hues of twilight, 
fanning the cheek with its airy wings, and soothing the 
anguish of the troubled bosom; and when the fierce 
tornado comes bounding over the hills, crushing the tall 
trees, and bringing desolation upon the peaceful valley, 
we mark the devastation of its awful footsteps, and are 
led to think of that being, "who rides upon the whirl- 



10 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

wind and directs the storm." It wafts the mariner 
gently onward to his destined home and haven, while 
the smoothly undulating sea sparkles in the sunbeams 
and dances beneath his prow ; or changed to the wrath- 
ful hurricane, it booms along the surface of the waters, 
and bows the gallant ship by its stormy pinions. And 
who is insensible to its emphatic language^ who can 
listen to its tones when he stands upon the mountain 
top, and hears them wail around him, and not receive 
the impress of the saddened feeling they seem so articu- 
lately to express 1 or when the light breeze freshens, 
and springs up like a warrior armed for battle ; when its 
rushings resemble the boundings of the war-horse as it 
comes careering by him, who does not catch a stirring 
impulsBj and respond to the thrillings of patriotic ardour 1 



DEATH. 

*' Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 
And stars to set — but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death !" 

" Remember that thou shalt die," v/as the reiterated 
apothegm of pagan wisdom, and the watchword is daily 
uttered at the moving of every sable hearse, and at the 
opening of every grave. But still we heed not the warn- 
ings we are prone to reckon on many years, and the 
hour of our final exit appears hidden to us in a dark 
and remote futurity. A thousand illusions beguile our 



MISCELLANEODS PIECES IN PROSE. ll 

hopes; a thousand promises allay our fears, and we 
sail onward, regardless of the coming darkness, because 
the. present hour is bright and serene. But all our day» 
are numbered, and be they few or be they many, our 
last day is not so distant as we would fain imagine. 
Since we live, so we must die; and if by reason of 
strength our life should extend to three-score years, it 
will prove but as a vapour, or a short tale quickly told. 
Death is an arrest from which no age is exempted, no 
condition free. The fatal seed is sown in the frailty of 
our frames, and is not unfrequently germinated and 
ripened for the harvest amid the rockings of the cradle. 
By the force of disease, or the casualties of time, by the 
foUies of existence or the infirmities of age, we are all 
hurried to the land of silence and forgetfulness, and our 
names forgotten by those who fill up the vacancies that 
we have made. There is always something in the ra- 
vages of death to move the sympathies of the roughest 
nature. We are associated to the living by innumerable 
ties ; and when the fatal shaft is thrown, if we cannot 
recognise a relative in the fallen victim, we may indeed 
remember the time when we also moved in the weeded 
ranks to the cold and narrow sepulchre, and paid the 
last tribute of affection to a beloved friend. Awakened 
by the touches of experience, we are led to mingle our 
griefs and sorrows with those of the afflicted mourner, 
as if our own domestic ties and partial aflfections were 
rent away. A thousand solemnities hover around the 
corse of the departed, which compel us to think and to 
feel. The inevitable doom of all the living is distinctly 
written upon the pale features of the dead. And we 



12 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

cannot but pause and consider, as we stand by, and see 
our own mortality reflected from behind the coverings of 
the shroud. At that moment, our hold on life seems 
feeble, the engrossing cares of earth are forgotten, and 
an unwonted thoughtfulness takes possession of the 
soul. The solemn idea of God — the overwhelming 
sense of his almighty power — the conviction of our own 
frailty — the recollection of former happy days that we 
spent with those friends on earth, and the unrevealed 
mysteries of the eternal world — these are considerations 
so grand and awful, that they open all the sources of 
our moral sensibility as they come rushing on the mind. 
The unthinking are aroused as from the dead to sober 
reflection; and even the votary of vice feels new and 
holier emotions rising in his bosom, the harbingers of 
penitence and blissful change. Many a wandering step 
has the gloomy scene arrested, many a cold heart thrilled 
with terror. By disturbing the dreams of the listless 
spirit, by rending the ties that had closely entwined 
themselves with all the chords of life, they have forced 
the sad and bleeding heart to seek some other object of 
attachment, some better solace and refuge than the un- 
stable world can give. Man then feels and realizes his 
mortality, and is under the awakening influence of the 
thought, that at all times and at all seasons, in the 
broad field or confined workshop, in the bustle of the 
world or the retirement of the dwelling, at the house of 
mourning or house of feasting, at the bright noonday or 
black night, he is liable to have the firmest anchor that 
he has cast here, wrenched from his hold, his gay bark 
torn from its moorings, and borne irresistibly down the 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 13 

tide, until the waves of eternity cover it forever. Yes, 
the brightest visions of earthly glory, and the firmest 
hopes of human felicity, are broken and prostrated amid 
the shiverings of death and the appendages of the tomb. 
From beneath its cold obstructions none can return. All 
the living must rot and moulder there: nor can titles, 
fame, or sceptred influence shield a mortal from its dark 
abode. The loftiest eminences on which men stand on 
this speck of earth, are there lost and forgotten. Nor 
will the grave-worm pass by the wealthy or the great, to 
luxuriate on the humble, the lowly, or the mean ; but 
he that treads in the stately saloons of the palace, and 
the despised tenant of the cottage, must alike go down 
to its gloomy ruins and mingle with the dust. But 
happy will it be for that individual, who, when the 
messenger shall bid him to appear, is fast and firm in 
the energies of immortal virtue; who has thought of 
his nature, his duty, and his God; who has applied him- 
self to the cultivation of his heart for holy affections, to 
the formation of his character in holy things. Then 
may he in the hour of sickness and in the declining 
years of life, welcome the approach of the dread de- 
stroyer, as a conductor to those blissful regions which 
are unalloyed by sorrow, and undisturbed by sin. 



14 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 



THE GRAVE OF WASHINGTOiN'. 

" 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap, 
That hallows the ground where heroes sleep." 

How many hallowed associations are clustered around 
this sacred spot. Here reposes all that was mortal of 
that immortal man. While viewing the tomb so be- 
dewed by the tear of patriotic gratitude, our thoughts 
naturally revert to those trying scenes, when he, who 
now rests beneath this peaceful clod, stood forth the 
undaunted champion of liberty, and blew the blast of 
freedom through an astonished world. Then was the 
time when a nation's weal or woe depended on the ef- 
forts of one man. Then was the time when a whole 
people trembled on the confines of national existence, 
doubtful, whether the next step would introduce them 
to the light and blessings of real life, or consign them t& 
the comfortless alternative of utter annihilation. Amid 
all the storms that darkened the political heavens, the- 
undaunted soul of this great man remained firm and: 
immoveable, and bore him on through fire and blood, 
through poverty and distress, to the consummation of hi» 
highest hopes — the establishment of this infant nation 
on the firm basis of liberty and equal rights. While the 
mind glances hastily at the history of Washington, the 
comparison of that period with the present breaks in 
upon the thoughts, and the mind at once contrasts the 
greatness of this growing republic, with its infantile 
helplessness, when that master spirit, commissioned 
from above, took it by the hand and became its Father 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 15 

and Protector. Could he stoop from his high abode in 
the heavens and visit this land and behold the blessings 
of liberty, for which he toiled and bled, profusely scat- 
tered on every side, hov^r would his bosom heave with 
joyous emotion, and he feel himself amply rewarded for 
air his toil, and suffering and his blood. How much do 
we owe to this great man ! We may drop the tear of 
sympathy over the tomb of departed worth, though we 
have received no personal benefits from the peaceful 
sleeper below. But when we stand over the grave of 
one from whom we have received our earthly all, through 
whose influence inestimable blessings flow on every 
side and will continue till time shall end, how should 
our bosoms swell with emotions of filial gratitude, and 
our eyes gush forth with ingenuous sorrow. 



THE SCRIPTURES. 

•" Lamp of our feet, whose hallowed beam 

Deep in our hearts its dwelUng hath ; 
How welcome is the cheering gleam 

Thou sheddest o'er our lonely path ! 
Light of our way ! whose rays are flung 

In mercy o'er our pilgrim road, 
How blessed its dark shades among, 

The star that guides us to our God." 

I AM fond of reading the holy scriptures. Aside fi-om 
the blessed principles and precepts which they inculcate, 
there is in the very language of the bible itself, an unri- 
valled degree of beauty and sublimity, far exceeding the 



16 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

most laboured and highly polished productions of unin- 
spired men. I could wish that all might be brought 
to regard the scriptures with that attention which their 
merit, considered in a literary point of view, would alone 
seem to demand. Any one who is even slightly ac- 
quainted with its contents, cannot arise from the perusal 
of its pages without being compelled to acknowledge, 
that the interest attached to the mere reading of the 
sacred volume is fresher and more enduring than that 
of any other species of composition. The introduction 
of scripture by a skilful author, always adds grace and 
dignity to his writings. Who that has perused Ivanhoe, 
the chef d'ceuvre of the "Wizzard of the North," but 
has realized the truth of this remark 1 The heart beats 
quicker and quicker, as we read the reply of Rebecca, 
the Jewess, to the hero's inquiry relative to the battle, 
which was raging without with irresistible fury. Yet 
what is it that gives to that reply its greatest beauty? 
It is the sublime and beautiful extract from the word of 
God with which it closes: there is a voice like the sound 
of many waters — the quiver rattleth — the glittering 
spear and shield — the noise of the captains and the 
shoutings. There is much excellence in the brevity of 
expression which characterizes the scriptures. Where, 
for example, is the life of man summed up with so much 
pathos, and yet in so few words, as in Job. "He 
cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down^ — he fleeth 
also like a shadow, and continueth not; his days pass 
like the swift ship — like an eagle that hasteneth to the 
prey!" And death— in what language but that of the 
upright man of Uz, can we find so explicit a description 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 17 

oif that deep and dreamless sleep 1 " One dieth in his 
full strength, being wholly at ease and quiet; his breasts 
are full of milk, and his bones are moistened with mar- 
row — another dieth in the bitterness of his spirit, and 
never eateth with pleasure ! They shall all lie down 
alike in the dust, and the worms shall cover them. God 
changeth their countenance, and sendeth them away!" 
How ample and yet how very touching the last sen- 
tence: " He changeth their countenance, and sendeth 
them away ! There is nothing in all the works of hu- 
ftian wisdom that equal the pathos and beauty of .the 
word of God ; its grandeur and subUmity are alike in- 
imitable. I never read the description of the majesty of 
the Almighty, by Habakuk, without an involuntary and 
almost shuddering sense of admiration. In the prophecy 
of Isaiah, concerning Babylon, "the beauty of the 
Chaldee's excellency," how sublimely and eloquently 
are depicted the desolation of her destruction, and the 
ruin of her fall. "It shall never be inhabited from 
generation to generation, neither shall the Arabian 
pitch his tent there; neither shall the shepherds make 
their fold there, but wild beasts of the desert shall lie 
there, and satyrs shall dance there. Thorns shall come 
up in the fortresses thereof; there shall the great owl 
make her nest, and lay, and hatch, and gather under 
the shadow; there shall the vulture also be gathered, 
€very one with her mate." The history of our Saviour, 
from his infancy at Bethlehem, to his last sufferings on 
Calvary, is one continued narration of deep and intense 
interest; whether in youth instructing the elders in the 
temple, or in maturer years performing miracles, com- 
b2 



18 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

forting the afflicted because they fainted, and were scat- 
tered abroad as sheep having no shepherd, uttering to 
simple fishermen his beautiful precepts, drinking the 
bitter cup in the solemn garden of Gethsemane, or call- 
ing in agony to his Father on the cross. Nothing could 
be more simple than the lamentation of Jesus over Jeru- 
salem: — O Jerusalem, &c. His farewell to his mourn- 
ing disciples, previous to his going away to the awful 
scene of his crucifixion, is touching in the extreme. 
We behold him about to bear the burden of their ini- 
quities, despised and rejected of men ; a man of sorrows 
and acquainted with grief, treading the wine-press 
alone. " My peace I leave with you, my peace I give 
unto you, not as the world giveth give I unto you." I 
never read this beautiful passage, without calling to 
mind a scene I once witnessed, on a sabbath, a few 
years ago, at an obscure country church in Pennsylva- 
nia. It was the season of administering the sacrament 
of the Lord's supper, and as the building was small, the 
communion service was held in an adjoining wood. 
The summer wind murmured in the trees above, and 
the sun-light trembling through the branches, danced 
flickeringly on the pure white cloth that covered the 
sacramental table. An old woman, nearly blind, whose 
only son, I was informed, had been killed by an awful 
accident two days before, sat at the end of the sacred 
board, near by which the aged minister stood up to 
break to his little congregation the bread of life. As he 
detailed the sufferings of the Saviour, the tears ran 
down the corrugated cheek of the widowed mother; but 
as he repeated the words of Christ to his sorrowing dis- 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 19 

cipleSj she looked up with eyes brightening in the dim- 
ness, and a countenance of calm benignity, and clasp- 
ing her pale attenuated hands, murmured in a whisper: 
"Peace, peace, not as the world giveth." I was a 
thoughtless, wayward youth, then, but I knew not how 
it was, as I gazed on the lighted features of that bereaved 
and afflicted mother, my heart melted, as I involuntarily 
exclaimed, if this be religion, let me Uve the hfe of the 
righteous. Setting the great and essential principles of 
the bible aside, I should still delight in the perusal of its 
pages. But how ought we to make ourselves familiar 
with the principles of sacred truth, and treasure up in 
our hearts the lessons of wisdom. By habitually con- 
templating the character and government of God, the 
life of man, and the course of human things, in the light 
in which the scriptures place them, then whatever may 
be the events that mark our days, we can never be des- 
titute of comfort and support. Should we not then 
exult and rejoice over its blessed and consoling precepts? 
Beautiful indeed, and lovely, when we reflect that they 
will lead us when this mortal shall have put on immor- 
tality, to the green pastures, and beside the still waters 
of a better land. 



^ MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 



CONSUMPTION. 

" And her cheek like the Parian stone is fair, 
But the hectic spot that flushes there, 
Is as richly red, and as transient too. 
As the clouds in autumn sky of blue. 
That seem like a host of glory met. 
To honour the sun at his golden set." 

There is a treacherous loveliness in consumption — 
a placid sinking of the strength of the body, and a gentle 
extinguishment of the powers of mind, which seems to 
disarm apprehension and remove fear, and make its ap- 
proaches and even its end, almost delusive and happy. 
At least its symptoms are so certain and its consumma- 
tion so sure, that we are almost led to believe, from the 
manifest indifference the first indications of its existence 
produce, that with many minds its gradual decay of pro- 
tracted hopes and the passive yielding up of the feeble 
pulsations of the weary heart, are little else than evi- 
dences of calm exultation and rejoicing. But whatever 
sentiments of indifference and resignation may actuate 
the exhausted heart of the quiet sufferer, there are 
others who watch over the sick bed, and note the feeble 
pulse and flushed cheek with an intensity of feeling and 
delusiveness of hope which finally withers up and blasts 
the heart with tenfold keenness and severity. As a re- 
fined writer has remarked, how many bright eyes grow 
dim, how many soft cheeks turn pale, how many fair 
forms annually fade away into the tomb, — yet, consump- 
tion, it will be found, is the cause which has blighted 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 21 

their loveliness and beauty. Death, it is figuratively 
said, strikes at a shining mark, and consumption, surely 
is the stealthy disease which inflicts the blow ; its earli- 
est victims are among the fairest objects in society, and 
the hopes it frustrates and disappoints, are the most 
cherished and fondest ones of existence. No hand can 
shield the consumptive being confirmed with the disease 
— no art can save; no arm can hold him back from the 
insatiate grave. 



MEMORY. 

"Memory! mysterious memory ! holy and blessed as a dream of 
heaven to the pure in spirit — haimter and accuser of the guilty !" 

Painful and even melancholy as it often may be, 
how frequently does the mind love to turn back upon 
the scenes that are gone by. How often are the 
thoughts drawn insensibly as it were, from the darkness 
of the future to the twilight of the past — to scenes that 
but faintly glimmer through the cold and sombrous 
lapse of days, and months, and years! A pleasing me- 
lancholy steals over the soul, as the green spots on the 
desert of life come up before the eye of imagination, and 
ties as strong as those of " first love" bind us uncon- 
sciously to scenes where once centred all our joys. 
Such are the reminiscences of childhood and youth; 
such are the forms pictured upon the sunny surface of 
the past, when the heart beat joyously and gay; when 
all above us was cloudless sky, and all around was sun- 



22 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

shine. If ever man enjoys happiness, it is in the spring- 
time of life, when his hope first begins to bud and blos- 
som, and his heart is glowing with the fervour of antici- 
pation. To his delusive eye the future appears as 
bright as the vision of an elysian dream. But soon as 
the first disappointment comes, old age steals along with 
silent tread, and all the recollection of enjoyment pe- 
rishes. Still memory, like every thing else connected 
with our worldly enjoyment, has its pleasures and its 
pains, its joys and its sorrows. The latter too often 
holds a melancholy predominance. The page of me- 
mory is the record of events which have marked our 
chequered course of life. It is that simple, unvarnished 
tale of truth, which reminds us of joys or sorrows that 
are passed. 

" Of hopes deceived — 



Of faded dreams of bliss." 

It tells us of the time when pleasure led us captive at 
her car, and when youthful hope, the music of the mind, 
was tuned to all its charms. The tenor of our past life 
may have been almost unchequered by the blighted 
spots of joy, yet moments of sadness have sometimes 
interrupted its evenness, and the memory creeps upon 
us like a dizziness of the brain. Some object around 
which our hopes clustered, has vanished when almost 
within our grasp. We have seen the grave close over 
the forms of those we loved, and the grave seemed the 
sepulchre of our hopes. We felt the keenness of disap- 
pointment, and even now the remembrance steals in 
sadness upon the soul. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 23 



ANNA MORISON. 

Edward Morison was an Englishman of birth and 
fortune. Having lost a beloved wife, and being desirous 
of removing from a place where every object recalled her 
to his memory, he formed the resolution of emigrating 
to America, then in its infancy. After disposing of his 
English possessions, he embarked in the first vessel for 
New England, accompanied by an infant daughter, and 
two faithful domestics, a male and female, who had 
been long resident in the family. After a short passage, 
he arrived in Boston, where he remained a short time, 
until hearing of a tract of land to be sold in the western 
part of the state of Massachusetts, he purchased it, and 
immediately removed thither, where he built a small but 
commodious house, and where he hoped to pass the re- 
mainder of his Ufe in quiet and seclusion. Here he 
intended to devote his time to the education of his 
daughter, and the study of nature, that noblest of vo- 
lumes. 

The dwelling of Mr. Morison was situated on the 
declivity of a romantic glen, surrounded on all sides by 
lofty hills covered with forest trees, accessible from the 
main road by a narrow foot path, which wound over 
the hills. These hills were formerly occupied as a hunt- 
ing ground by the savage tribes, who then infested our 
country. A clear stream, issuing from the neighbour- 
ing mountains, murmured through the bottom of the 
glen, and, after many windings, disappeared at the op- 
posite extremity of the valley. Immediately contiguous 



24 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

to the house was the garden, where might be seen the 
clustering flowers of the ahnond tree; the purple blos- 
soms of the geranium; the rose in all its beautiful va- 
riety; the twining honeysuckle and eglantine; in short, 
every flower and shrub, either exotic or indigenous, that 
could add beauty to the scene, or fragrance to the sur- 
rounding atmosphere. Indeed this little spot, lately so 
wild, now, under the skilful hand of cultivation, literally 
blossomed like the rose, and shone forth a second Eden. 
But there was one flower in this beautiful parterre, that 
exceeded all the others. It was the lovely Anna. This 
sweet bud of the wilderness, warmed and fostered by 
the sun of parental affection, expanded its petals, and 
now bloomed forth in all the pride of suramier beauty. 

Time makes rapid strides: Anna had now attained 
her seventeenth year, and was every thing that the fond 
heart of a parent could desire. She was beautiful, but 
her features wore that peculiar cast of spiritual loveliness 
which baffles description, and her soul corresponded 
with its tenement; " the gem was worthy of the casket." 
Free and light as air, she would bound over the hills 
with the fleetness of the antelope, and every rock and 
by-path of the-, forest were perfectly familiar to her^ 
This uniform playfulness and good humour had restored 
to her father his wonted cheerfulness, and his beloved 
wife seemed to live again in the person of his lovely 
daughter. To give pleasure to her father, and lighten 
the burden of his earthly care, was the predominant 
wish of Anna's heart. She would read to him for 
hours together; was the constant companion of his 
walks, during which he would instruct her in the sci- 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 25 

ence of flowers and pebbles, and discourse of the various 
tribes that inhabit the earth, the mighty ocean, and 
illimitable air; and thus gradually would he lift her 
thoughts " from nature up to nature's God." 

As Anna increased in years, Mr. Morison began to 
experience some yearnings towards his native country. 
He wished to give his daughter those advantages of 
society and education, so essential to a knowledge of 
human nature and the formation of character, and 
which it was then impossible to obtain in America. He 
was anxious also to place her with her kindred, that, in 
case he should be taken from her, she might find some 
friends, to whom she could naturally look for protec- 
tion. Matters were in this posture, when their solici- 
tude was unexpectedly interrupted by the appearance 
of a stranger. Albert Sigourney was the only son of a 
wealthy London merchant. His father and Mr. Mori- 
son had been school-fellows, and there had for many 
years subsisted between them a friendship, which fell 
little short of brotherly love; and a friendly intercourse 
had been kept up between their families, until the re- 
moval of Mr. Morison to America. Albert had just 
completed his education at the university of Oxford, and 
being naturally of an adventurous disposition, conceived 
an ardent desire to see the new world. He accordingly 
solicited and obtained the consent of his father, and 
after having made the necessary preparations for his 
intended voyage, and being furnished by his father with 
letters of introduction to Mr. Morison, he shortly set 
sail. Having arrived safely in Boston, he immediately 
repaired to Mr. Morison's agent, and received the ne- 
c 



26 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

cessary information respecting his journey ; so that after 
a few days he arrived at the hospitable mansion of the 
former, where he received a cordial welcome. 

Albert possessed in an eminent degree, all those en- 
gaging qualities of mind and person, so well calculated 
to captivate the female heart. But of this he was totally 
unconscious. Naturally open and ingenuous, he was a 
stranger to dissimulation and all those coquetish arts, 
which characterize too many of his sex. He had now 
become quite domesticated in this kind family, and daily 
found some new pretext for postponing farther emigra- 
tion into this western world. And indeed he could not 
but acknowledge to himself, that his ardour for travel 
and adventure had somewhat abated, since he first en- 
countered the bright eyes of Anna. Mr. Morison had 
become much attached to him, and as winter was fast 
approaching, would not hear one word of his leaving 
them. One other inmate of this mansion, too, appeared 
not altogether unconcerned, when Albert's departure 
was made the subject of discourse. It was natural that 
Albert and Anna, living constantly together under the 
same roof, should have conceived an ardent friendship 
for each other, and that it should subsequently ripen 
into love. Mr. Morison viewed this growing attach- 
ment with secret pleasure. To see his darling child 
united to the son of his dearest friend, one every way 
worthy of such a trust, was a consummation to which 
he had never looked forward; when Albert, therefore, 
with the blushing Anna, knelt before him to obtain a 
parent's blessing on their mutual vows of love and con- 
stancy, it was readily granted; It was finally arranged, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 27 

that Albert should remain with them during the winter, 
and early in the ensuing spring they should embark 
with him for England, where the nuptial knot was to 
be tied in presence of the friends of both parties. Albert 
accordingly wrote immediately to his parents, acquaint- 
ing them with the above arrangements, and was happy 
shortly after to receive an answer, which contained 
their hearty concurrence. 

The winter glided rapidly away; the fields once 
more put on their mantle of green, and Zephyrus and 
Flora announced the return of spring! It was now the 
last of May, and all was bustle and preparation in the 
mansion of Mr. Morison, Anna anticipated the mo- 
ment of their departure with mingled sensations of 
pleasure and pain. She felt regret at leaving the spot 
where she had been nurtured from infancy, and where 
she had passed so many happy hours, but she had long 
felt an ardent desire to behold the land of her nativity, 
the renowned England, the land of kings and heroes, of 
which she had read and heard so much. It happened 
a few days previous to their intended departure, that 
Albert had occasion to go to a neighbouring town to 
make the necessary arrangements for their journey. The 
evening being uncommonly fine, Anna tied on her hat 
and pursued her customary walk along the mountain 
path, intending to join Albert on his return home. Mr. 
Morison was seated at a window in the little parlour, 
enjoying the evening breeze, which came laden with 
perfume from the adjacent garden, and watching the 
retreating form of his daughter, as it wound along the 
narrow pathway, until it became lost to his view in the 



28 ■ MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

shades of the forest. He continued some time at the 
window, until the gathering shadows of night reminded 
him of the lateness of the hour. He had long expected 
the return of Albert and Anna, and now he began to 
experience some alarm at their protracted absence. At 
length, however, he heard approaching footsteps, and 
Albert entered alone. He had not seen Anna. All 
now was consternation and alarm! Mr. Morison, with 
Albert and their male domestic, immediately commenced 
a search, which continued for the greatest part of the 
night: it however proved fruitless. On the following 
morning, Albert procured assistance from the neigh- 
bouring town. They scoured the country for several 
days. Not a nook or cranny of the forest remained un- 
explored; but no trace of the lost one could be disco- 
vered. Pursuit was at length given over. Albert, 
however, could not but entertain a hope that she was 
still living, as no marks of violence had been discovered. 
His grief was only exceeded by that of her father, whose 
affliction now increased to agony. To him the uncer- 
tainty of her fate was far more aggravating than the 
actual knowledge of her death would have been. Every 
thing around reminded him of his lost child : her books, 
her work, the sweet flowers she had reared; her image 
was associated with every object that met his eye. 
Albert seemed in a measure to have forgotten his own 
grief, in the endeavour to administer consolation to the 
afflicted parent. He strove all in his power to divert 
the thoughts of Mr. Morison from the course of their 
sorrow, while his own bursting heart assured him of 
the impracticability of the task. It was all in vain : Mr. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 29 

Morison still continued absorbed in grief, until this 
agony of mind at length produced a violent fever, which 
continued for many weeks. During this period, Albert 
watched over him with filial affection, never leaving 
him night or day. No time was lost in procuring me- 
dical assistance from the nearest town, but the probable 
issue of the disorder for a long time wore a doubtful as- 
pect. At length, however, the strength of a good con- 
stitution predominated over disease, and he began gra- 
dually to recover. The first paroxysm of grief having 
subsided, Mr. Morison relapsed into a state of melan- 
choly, from which the greatest efforts of Albert could 
not arouse him, and where we must now take leave of 
him, to account for the sudden disappearance of Anna. 
We have before mentioned, that when Anna left her 
father's house, it was with the intention of joining Al- 
bert, on his return home. She had not proceeded far, 
when her attention was arrested by a loud rustling of 
the leaves, and on turning aside a few steps to ascer- 
tain the cause, she found herself firmly grasped by a 
tall, athletic Indian. She uttered a faint scream, when 
a bandage was instantly applied to her mouth. She 
was then led, or rather dragged along for 'some dis- 
tance, when they were joined by another Indian, ap- 
parently some years younger than his companion, and 
having formed a kind of litter of the boughs of trees, in 
which she was placed, they started off at a rapid pace, 
and continued travelling in silence for many hours, until 
arriving at an opening in the centre of a thick wood, 
they placed the litter on the ground and removed the 
bandages. " Come along," said the old man, and they 
c2 



30 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

pursued a narrow foot-path overhung with spreading 
branches of forest trees, and enclosed with thick under- 
brush, proceeding rapidly until Anna was excessively 
fatigued, and at length arrived before the entrance of 
an Indian hut or wigwam, most artfully concealed, and 
defying all suspicion. Having removed the mat which 
covered the door-way, they entered. A large fire was 
blazing in the centre of the apartment, before which sat 
a middle aged woman. She raised her head at their 
approach, and after surveying Anna with some slight 
emotions of curiosity, she relapsed into her former state 
of apathy. Two children, or papooses, were sleeping in 
one corner, and around the apartment were suspended 
various implements and trophies of the chase, amongst 
which was a string of human scalps. There was a se- 
cond apartment, which is not usual in Indian habita- 
tions; into this Anna was conducted, and left to her 
own sad meditations. On finding herself alone, she fell 
upon a mat, which was to serve for a bed, and gave 
vent to a torrent of tears. Here, a prisoner in an Indian 
hut, she thought of her father, of Albert, of home and 
its endearments, until, overpowered with sorrow and 
fatigue, she fell asleep, and when she awoke, the sun 
had attained his height of meridian splendour, and all 
nature appeared bright and beautiful; but its cheering 
influence extended not to the heart of Anna, who, alone 
and disconsolate, still wept in her solitary confinement. 
She continued for many days absorbed in grief; at 
length, however, the clouds of melancholy began to dis- 
perse, and the sunshine of hope once more illumined 
her bosom. Her thoughts now became wholly engrossed 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 31 

in devising some method of escape from her odious cap- 
tivity, v?hich, from her knowledge of the Indian charac- 
ter, and their enmity towards her countrymen, she was 
persuaded might terminate in death, or something more 
to be dreaded. In order to effect her purpose, she as- 
sumed an air of contentment, and even assisted in the 
household affairs of the squaw, her mistress. But she 
found it impossible to elude the vigilance of the two 
Indians: jealous and cunning, they were never absent 
from the wigwam both at the same time. Weeks and 
months glided slowly away, and brought with them no 
opportunities of escape, and Anna began to despair of 
€ver more regaining her liberty. Full of these depress- 
ing thoughts, she arose one morning, and was surprised 
to find the Indians preparing for a hunting excursion. 
All things being in readiness, after muttering a few 
words to the woman, the purport of which Anna could 
not altogether comprehend, but, from the manner in 
which they were uttered, she was persuaded they re- 
ferred to herself, they departed, apparently intending to 
be absent several days. Now, thought Anna, is the. 
time for flight; but she knew that it would not be possi- 
ble to accomplish this in the day time, and therefore 
deferred effecting her determined purpose until night. 
The day at length passed away, and darkness and 
silence once more resumed their reign. 

Anna now retired to her apartment as usual, but not 
to sleep. Here she continued watching for many hours; 
at length, stealing carefully from her room, she listened 
for a few moments, to ascertain if the inmates of the hut 
were asleep, then with a trembling hand and beating 



32 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

heart, she gently raised the mat which covered the en- 
trance, stole cautiously from beneath it, proceeded rapid- 
ly along the narrow foot-path, and in a few moments 
found herself in an open space, surrounded by a thick 
wood. The moon shed an imperfect light over the 
scene, but the natural resolution of her mind enabled 
her to overcome all obstacles. Once more at liberty, she 
felt every difficulty vanish before her, and she now 
w^alked forward, knowing not whither, as fast as her 
strength and the thick underbrush would admit. Any 
place to her was preferable to an Indian wigwam; the 
forest, or even starvation, presented to her imagination 
no terrors equal to those of the tortures inflicted by In- 
dian cruelty. Having continued her walk for many 
hours, halting now and then to gain breath, at length, 
by the gray light of morning, she discovered, not far 
distant, a farm house, whither she repaired, and having 
ascertained that the family had arisen, she knocked at 
the door, and readily gained admittance. She related 
the cause of her sudden and singular appearance, and 
was hospitably received. The kind hearted farmer of- 
fered to conduct her to her friends, and after partaking 
of some refreshment, they set off. This generous man 
was well acquainted with the way, and had been for 
many years what was called an Indian hunter', under 
his care and guidance, she therefore felt perfectly safe 
and secure. 

The trees were now assuming their autumnal coat of 
many colours, and it was towards the close of an Indian 
summer day, when the last faint rays of the setting sun 
were just visible above the surrounding mountains, that 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 33 

Albert, absorbed in gloomy reflections, was slowly walk- 
ing up and down the piazza, which extended along the 
front of the house of Mr. Morison. The latter, wrapt 
in melancholy, was seated at the window of the little 
parlour, when his eyes were unconsciously turned to 
the mountain path, where he had for the last time be- 
held the form of his lamented daughter. His revery, 
however, was of short duration, for his attention was 
suddenly arrested by the appearance of a female figure. 
It emerged from the forest ; he gazed at it ! It moved 
-along the pathwaj'^; still more earnestly he eyed it! It 
<;rossed the little bridge at the foot of the hill; he invo- 
luntarily arose from his seat ! It arrived at the entrance 
of the garden! The gate it opened! 'Twas she! 
Albert darted, like the mountain roe, " Anna, ray lost 
Anna," he exclaimed, and folded her to his heart! 

We pass over the transports of this meeting, as 
*' these are scenes which address themselves to the eye 
and the heart, rather than the ear." The joy of Mr. 
Morison at the return of his daughter knew no bounds. 
She was to him as one arisen from the dead, and he 
could but with difficulty persuade himself that it was 
not all a dream. Happiness now reigned in this late 
sorrowful famil}'^, and Anna, after recounting her ad- 
ventures, retired to her chamber, and there, having 
commended her soul to her Maker, and rendered him 
thanks for once more restoring .her to her friends, she 
sank into a profound slumber. A few days of repose 
restored her usual vivacity; and the genial air of "sweet 
home" seemed to have imparted health to her cheek and 
mgo\ii to her frame. Mr. Morison now thought it 



34 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 

adviseable to repair to Boston, as soon as practicable, 
and there to await an opportunity of sailing for England ; 
for he feared, should he remain longer in this sequestered 
spot, his new found treasure might lagain be wrested 
from him. All things being put in readiness, a few 
days saw them on their way to Boston, accompanied by 
their two domestics, having taken an affectionate fare- 
well of the spot, consecrated by many scenes of joy and 
sorrow. 

On their arrival in town, they engaged a passage in 
a vessel on the point of sailing for England, where they 
shortly arrived, and were affectionately greeted by their 
numerous friends. Not long after, Albert and Anna 
Were united at the altar, and retired to an elegant coun- 
try seat, accompanied by Mr. Morison. Here they 
continued for many years, in the full enjoyment of 
every earthly blessing, and of that peace of mind which 
the world can neither give nor take away. In the 
course of time they revisited America, and the scene of 
their early love, which had become the centre of a 
thriving village. Factories and mills were erected over 
the once quiet stream ; the forest and the red man were 
alike laid low, and all was industry and enterprise. On 
the very spot of Anna's imprisonment, as near as could 
be ascertained, stood an elegant church; the valleys 
around were covered with verdant grass and wavy corn, 
and cattle were feeding upon " a thousand hills!" They 
returned once more to their native land, happy in them- 
selves, and dispensing happiness to all around. Mr. 
Morison lived to a good old age, and saw Albert and 
Anna surrounded by a " numerous offspring, lovely and 
virtuous as themselves." 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 35 



THE SABBATH. 

*' Monarch, on thy regal throne, 
Ruler, whom the nations own ; 
Captive, at thy prison gate, 
Sad in heart and desolate, 
Bid earth's minor cares farewell — 
Hark ! it is the Sabbath bell! 

"Soldier, who on battle plain 
Soon may'st mingle with the slain, 
Sailor, on the dark blue sea 
As thy bark rides gallantly ; 
Prayer and praise become ye well, 
Though ye hear no Sabbath bell !" 

How delightful is the stillness of the sabbath morn- 
ing. I never enjoy the delights of such a time without 
feeling grateful to the wise God of the universe that he 
has given us one day to meditate upon his perfections 
and to send our thoughts forth in the contemplation of 
another and holier existence. By calling men away 
from their accustomed occupations, it tends to sever 
those ties which bind them to present objects; who is 
there that has not found it so'? who has not found, that 
by a temporary suspension of his ordinary pursuits, tu- 
multuous feeling has subsided; that his agitated spirit 
has been calmed ; that he has learned to take wiser and 
clearer views of the present life; that the growing earth- 
liness of his heart has been checked, and the importu- 
nate and obtrusive concerns of the world forgotten 1 
Amid the sacredness and solemnity of this hallowed 



36 MISCELLANEOCrs PIECES IN PROSE. 

day, the soul breaks the fetters that bind it down ter 
sense, and on the wings of faith soars to those bright 
mansions where the weary are promised eternal rest. 
How peaceful is the sabbath ! God has indeed conse- 
crated this day of rest. No noisy din mars its tranquil- 
lity; no discordant sound breaks the repose: the work- 
man's hammer is hushed, and the ploughman's voice is 
still. All that we hear is now and then the peal of the 
distant bell, that tells the hour of worship, whose sweet 
notes reverberate through the atmosphere, and rest like 
spirits upon the ear. The pathway is filled with the 
crowded multitude, winding their way to the church, to 
meet with God in his temple ! It is there that the 
Christian feels, to his inmost soul, the worth of the 
heavenly promises; it is there that he forms an accurate 
estimate of pursuits, objects, actions; that the false 
weights of passion, and vanity, and present interest are 
thrown out of the scale, and things are weighed in the 
balances of the sanctuary; it is there that the sinner is 
stopped in his mad career of pleasure that leads down to 
the chambers of death, and his thoughts fixed on the 
all-concerning reality of death, judgment, and eternity j 
it is there the mourner finds peace in the prospect of 
heaven, while the joy of his heart lies low in the grave. 
He feels the truth, that every thing that meets the eye, 
cheers the heart, or excites to a love of earth, is transient 
and perishing ; and he is led to place his affections on 
God and immortality, trusting in a renewal of attach- 
ment in the upper world. It is there that the rich and 
poor meet together and bend before the holiest of all. 
Men are reminded of their alliance as brethren of one 



Miscellaneous pieces in prose. 37 

Common family, that they are members of one another, 
that the true interest of each is the true interest of the 
whole, and that sentiments of mutual kindness, defer- 
ence, and good will, should be excited, kept alive, and 
quickened. Who can think of the absurd foundations 
■of worldly distinctions, of their fickleness, their fleet- 
ness, their brevity at the best, and all this as in the sight 
of God, before his throne, vnth the cross as the ground 
of mediation, and yet fail to treat with kindness and 
brotherly love those especially for whom Christ died*? 
It is there that men learn a just estimation of them- 
selves and a just estimation of others. And the habits, 
principles, and sentiments thus derived, return with 
them to their dwellings, and shed peace, contentment 
and resignation on their daily walks. 

Oh, how sweet are the services of the temple. Can 
we not remember seasons in our past lives, when our 
hearts have burned within us in the performance of 
these exercises; when in the period of early youth, 
together with parents, brothers and sisters, whose be- 
loved forms, it may be, now sleep in death, we have 
listened to the solemn appeals of the pulpit, opened our 
souls to religious instruction, knelt before the omnipre- 
sent God, and mingled our mutual prayers and praises 
together; when, hand in hand, we have entered the 
sanctuary and basked in the light of the redeemer's 
love, and been refreshed with the dews of benignant 
and perpetual grace, imbibed religious sentiments, and 
formed religious resolutions, which have resulted in the 
fruits of virtue and holiness ; have we not there learned 
how to repress our passions — how to bear prosperity 

D 



38 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE-, 

and affliction — how to love and serve the Creator — how 
to live for the world of immortality, and to entertain 
Christian hopes, and improve Christian blessings'? Oh, 
how various and multiform^ how pure and rich have 
been those seasons! Thanks to God for the sabbath! 

*♦***♦** 
Perchance some of our friends, who used to go up with 
us to the house of prayer, have ceased to return within 
its sacred walls. They were accustomed to mingle in 
the concourse of the world, and come up again to the 
holy altar when the short week had revolved ; but our 
eyes now look for them in vain. The young, the beau- 
tiful, the gifted — they are not here now. They have 
appeared before the judgment-seat of God, and all traces 
of their connexion have vanished forever with the fleet- 
ing shadows of time. Their sabbath days on earth are 
ended and can never more return. And from this, we 
hear a warning that we shall soon be summoned. But 
let the Christian pilgrim go on without halting, and 
without fear — onward, — onward, till his way-worn feet 
stand on the borders of the dark river, and he hails the 
bright inheritance of the eternal sabbath-land. 



AN ALLEGORY. 

It was night. Jerusalem slept as quietly amid her 
hills as a child upon the breast of its mother. The 
noiseless sentinel stood Uke a statue at his post, and the 
philosopher's light burned dimly in the recesses of his 
chamber. But a dark night was abroad on the earth. 



Miscellaneous pieces in prose. 39 

A moral darkness involved the nations in its unlightened 
shadows. Reason shed a faint glimmering over the 
minds of men, like the cold and inefficient shining of a 
distant star. The immortality of man's spiritual nature 
was unknown, his relations to heaven undiscovered, and 
his future destiny obscured in a cloud of mystery. It 
was at this period that two forms of etherial mould 
hovered over the land of God's chosen people. They 
seemed sister angels sent to earth upon an embassy of 
peace and love. The one was of a lofty, majestic sta- 
ture, and in the well formed limbs which her snowy 
drapery concealed, in her erect bearing and ^ead)' eye, 
were exhibited the highest degree of strength and con- 
£dence. Her right arm was extended in an expres- 
sive gesture upwards, where night appeared to have 
placed her darkest pavilion, while, on her left, reclined 
"her delicate companion, in form and countenance the 
contrast of the other, for she was drooping like the 
flower when unmoistened by refreshing dews^ and her 
bright but troubled eye scanned the air with ardent but 
varying glances. Suddenly, a light like the sun flashed 
out from the heavens, and Faith and Hope hailed with 
exulting songs .the rising star of Bethlehem. Years 
yoUed away and a stranger was seen in Jerusalem. He 
was a meek and unassuming man, whose happiness 
«eemed to consist in acts of benevolence to the whole 
race of humanity. There were deep traces of sorrow 
fiin his countenance, though none could tell why he 
grieved, for he lived in the practice of unexampled vir- 
tue. By and by it was rumoured that the stranger 
worked miracles; that the blind saw, the dumb spoke, 



40 MISCELLANEOCiS PIECES IN PROSE, 

and the dead leaped to life at his touch; that when he 
commanded, the ocean moderated his stormy tide, and 
the very thunders articulated, he is the son of God. 
Envy assailed him with the charge of sorcery, and the 
voice of impious judges condemned the innocent to> 
death. Slowly and thickly guarded, he ascended the 
hill of Calvary. A heavy cross bent him to the earth. 
But Faith leaned upon his arm, and Hope, dipping her 
pinions in his blood, mounted to the skies. 



THE GAMBLER'S FATE * 

The deep toned bell of the cathedral, told that time 
had advanced an hour upon midnight; the rain fell in 
torrents, pattering upon the flagged footpaths and against 
the windows, while the hollow wind swept in fierce 
gusts along the deserted streets of the metropolis. The 
gas lamps flickered with unsteady beams, now dwindhng 
to a pale blue spark, and anon flaring out like the broad 
flame of a blazing torch. Amidst this scene of elemental 
strife, there was scarce a human being to be seen, but 
the shivering warders of the night, and perhaps a house- 
less child of shame and misery, vainly endeavouring to 
obtain a shelter beneath the piazza of some closed but 
still friendly door. A solitary individual alone seemed 
to despise the fierce tempest which poured its wrath 
upon his lightly clad, but elegantly formed person. He 

* The above sketch has been slightly altered from its origiaai 
form. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 41 

Tapidly turned the corners of the various streets which 
-conducted him to his dweUing, when a sudden gust 
carried his hat from his head, and swept it along the 
pavement; yet he cast not a look after it, but walked 
rapidly onward, seemingly unconscious of his loss. 
Thus he passed through several streets, his dark hair 
<3ripping with rain, and clinging heavily to his fair 
open brow, until he reached a small but respectable 
house, to him an unhappy abode. Pausing for an in- 
stant, he seemed to recollect the condition in which he 
was, and looking up to the windows, all was gloom, 
save a glimmering -ray that pierced through the par- 
tially drawn curtains of an upper chamber window. 
The sight shook his- soul; he rushed from the house, 
and was proceeding at a rapid pace down the street, 
when he suddenly stopped — an irresistible impulse drew 
him to the door again — he knocked — it opened, and the 
wretched Henry was clasped in the arms of his young 
and affectionate wife. Shocked as she was at his hag- 
gard and disordered dress, she made no inquiries, but 
leading him to their little parlour, gently endeavoured 
to undo the loose cravat, whose damp folds lay upon his 
exposed bosom. "Pshaw! Emily, never mind it — 
'twill do very well!" said Henry, with a forced and 
careless air, "'tis a wild night — what have you got 
here 7" approaching the sideboard, on which stood a de- 
canter and glasses. " Wine, Henry." " Wine! it wont 
do; I'm cold, let me have some brandy." "Henry," 
said his anxious wife, wreathing her arms around his 
neck, "will you go to bedl How cold you are, and 
your eye — it is changed and wandering!'' " The bran- 
d2 



43 MISCELLANEOCrs PIECES IN FROSB, 

dy, Emily!-' he repeated, in a sterner tone. She silently 
obeyed, and Henry, filling a large glass, swallowed it 
with eager avidity. " Ha," said he, as he laid down 
the empty vessel, "'tis a glorious draught ; fools alone 
decry its vivifying influence. Come Emily, my life, 
why look so terrific 7 All will be well yet, 'T is a fear- 
fill night. Where's my haf? Oh! I had forgotten. 
Come, one draught more, and then,"— —He poured 
out another bumper, and was in the act of raising it to 
his lips, when his trembhng wife, with tear-streaming 
eyes, held his hand, "Henry, what madness is this! 
would you plunge into desperation the moment our 
prospects are brightening'? Your uncle has been here 
this evening." "My uncle!" " Yes, and he has for- 
given all — your disobedience in marrying against his 
wishes — all, all- is forgiven.'' "Forgiven!" muttered 
Henry ; "too late — top late — I'm a lost wretch !" " Hen- 
ry, come, you must not speak thus. I have still better 
news to tell you," and placing her arm within his, she 
quietly drew him over to the sofa, where their little boy 
lay smiling in infancy's happy slumber. " Your uncle 
has made Charles a generous present. See," said she, 
pointing to a pocket book which lay beneath the infant's 
rosy cheek, " My Henry, shall we not now be happy 1" 
Her husband's eyes glistened with eager delight as he 
seized the unexpected prize, The boy awoke, and 
opening his full eyes, smiled in his father's face, and 
stretched forth his little arms to receive his wonted ca- 
resses. Henry could not resist the natural feelings 
which rushed to his breast at the moment. He caught 
up his child, and pressing it to his bosom, gazed on it 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 43 

for a moment with all a parent's fondness. But it waa 
only for a moment ; he replaced the child on the sofa, 
and brushing the back of his hand across his eyes, to 
hide the tears that struggled for vent, said with unaffect- 
ed concern, " confound this rain ! it has almost blinded 
me. How much has my uncle given us, Emily?" 
"Two notes of a hundred pounds." '' Two hundred! 
Ha! it might do. Fortune cannot always be unkind. 
Emily, my love, I must leave you for an hour or two." 
^* Leave me, Henry! on such a night. Sure you jest." 
"I do not, indeed; nay, do not hang so on me; I tell 
you, Emily, I must go ; I have business, very particular 
business; there — go to bed!" 

Thus saying, he broke from her arms, and hurriedly 
thrusting the pocket-book into his bosom, quitted the 
house, and retraced his steps to the den of infamy and 
iniquity he had quitted an hour before— a gaming 
house! Poor victim! reared from early youth in the 
family of his uncle, a wealthy merchant in the city, he 
Was treated as his adopted son, until his private marri» 
age with a beautiful but portionless girl, so irritated the 
old man, that he forbade his nephew his house, and de^ 
clared he should never inherit a portion of his fortune. 
For a year he struggled with his gentle biide, against 
adverse fate ; no, not altogether adverse, for, during that 
time he had the melancholy delight of clasping to his 
bosom the first pledge of his misfortune and his love. 
Shortly after this time, Henry, who still kept up an in- 
timacy with some of his early associates, was induced 
one night to enter a notorious gambling house in the 
neighbourhood of At first he shuddered at the 



44 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROsE. 

idea of entering such a Pandemonium; but the persua- 
sion of his friends, and an overweening confidence in 
his own resolution not to play, overcame his scruples, 
and he accompanied them. For an hour or so, he was 
content to look on at the play, astonished at the rapidity 
with which the heap of gold and notes that covered the 
table, exchanged owners. At length, the demon of 
gambling urged him to venture a sovereign or two, on 
"the hazard of the die." He threw and won; threw 
again and doubled his gains. Thjis fortune continued 
to smile upon him, until, on quitting the table, he found 
himself a winner of upwards of sixty pounds. This 
sum, in his present narrowed circumstances, was a little 
treasure; and in the first burst of his exultation, he re- 
solved to return to his wife with his unexpected wealth, 
and forsake the gaming tables forever; but then he was 
not sure how Emily would receive his ill-gotten gains; 
beside, the sum altogether was only a trifle, and if he 
pursued his luck vigourously a few nights more, he 
would be independent of the world, and could then 
easily reconcile his wife to the mode in which he had 
obtained his wealth. Thus he pursued his fallacious 
reasoning, and the following night found him at the 
hazard table, engaged in the play with all the eagerness 
of a professed gambler; but his good fortune had for- 
saken him, and he lost not only the money he won the 
night before, but also the sum he had reserved to meet 
some pressing demands, in fact his all. This night 
saw him there in high spirits, and with cash in abun- 
dance. There was, however, a wildness, a reckless- 
ness in his manner, which told peace was a stranger 



MIS'CELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 45 

to his bosom. And well it might: he was a sunken and 
guilty man ; the morning's sun saw him, if poor, still 
innocent, but its decUning rays reflected on all but a 
convicted felon ! Goaded at the thought of the domestic 
ruin he had perpetrated, he that day forged his uncle's 
name to a considerable amount, had the bill promptly 
discounted, and hoped by the night's winning to take it 
up before its maturity, and recover what he had lost. 
Delusive hope ! he played with various success during 
the night, till at length, finding himself a considerable 
loser, he seized the box, threw out again, and ceased to 
be master of a shilling ! 

For a moment he stood in stupid immobility, watching 
the last wreck of his fortune divided among the harpies. 
The lights swam before his eyes, and the countenance 
of the players seemed to have acquired a demoniacal 
expression. He snatched up his hat and rushed into 
the street, in a state bordering on phrenzy ; in the state 
I have described at the commencement of this wretched 
tale. On Henry's return to the hazard table, he 
found around it the same persons who had won his 
money, still engaged in the soul-absorbing spirit of the 
game. Buoyed up with the delusive hope that luck 
would turn in his favour, he commenced playing with a 
desperate energy, and the obvious consequence was, 
that in a few casts of the dice, the sum he had so heart- 
lessly wrested from the necessities of his wife and child, 
became dwindled into a solitary ten-pound note. Crump- 
ing this last stake between his fingers, he flung it on the 
table, called a main, and threw ! For a moment he he- 
sitated, fearful of the result; but the groom-potter's 



4B MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROsg. 

harsh, monotonous voice, calling " caster's out," told but 
too plainly its fate. He saw, with the sickness of de- 
spair, the abyss, to which he had so madly hurricjd, 
yawning beneath his feet, and irretrievable ruin en- 
compassing him on every side. Turning from the 
table, he encountered one of the players, whom he 
strongly suspected of playing false ; in the desperation 
of his excited feelings, he openly accused him of cheat- 
ing; a blow was the reply, and a general battle ensued. 
When it had in some measure subsided, but before the 
tumult of the mind could be allayed, a card was put 
into his hands by a friend of his antagonist, who de- 
manded of him an immediate meeting, or an ample apo- 
logy. The former he accepted without a moment's 
reflection. Pistols were immediately provided, and at 
day-break on a raw November morning, the late honour- 
able and virtuous Henry was seen issuing from 

the den of pollution, amidst a group of gamblers and 
swindlers, to decide by the shedding of human blood, 
the claim to pre-eminence in vice. The rain had ceased, 
but the drenched streets and the gray clouds which still 
rolled heavily across the blotted face of heaven, gave to 
surrounding objects a lowering aspect, according well 

with the gloomy anticipations of 's mind. They 

soon reached the appointed spot ; and as the actors in 
this game of life and death were all acquainted with 
their business, the preliminaries were soon arranged. 
The ground was measured, and the principals placed 
according to the rules of the duello. A pistol was 

placed in — 's hand, which he received with an air 

of vacant indifference; the word was given: he stood 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 47 

motionless. Not so his adversary, who discharged his 

pistol with fatal aim. sprung from the ground, 

and fell to the earth; the bullet had reached his heart; 
and before the by-standers could raise him from the 
ground, he was dead I His wife! — but no more: she 
sunk hke a crushed lily beneath the blow, and her 
once blooming boy soon afterwards found repose in a 
mother's grave! 



THE MOORS. 

Music no longer swells along those festal halls where 
once met the gallant of Grenada. The notes of the 
harp are hushed in her deserted bowers. The Alham- 
bra, once her pride, whose sculptured arches echoed to 
the joyous tread of youth and beauty, is now waste and 
desolate. The noisome weeds are gathering around 
her marble fountains, and the rude hand of the Vandal 
is fast obUterating every trace of her brave and high- 
souled people. History offers to our view few scenes 
which are not revolting to the refined and generous 
mind. As she takes her pencil, truth compels her to 
blend her darkest colours in the picture which she 
sketches for posterity. Rapine, murder, and the strife 
for power, stand out in full proportions upon the ex- 
tended canvass. Bright spots, however, appear at dis- 
tant intervals, to relieve the eye, pained with gazing 
upon the miseries there delineated. Science and the 
liberal arts spring up amidst the surrounding barbarian- 



48 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROsE. 

ism, and man forgets, in the milder pursuits of peace, 
the wild ferocity of the untutored warrior. But no^ 
where does history present us with a scene more worthy 
our admiration than Spain, under the dominion of the 
Moors. The lamp of science in Greece had long since 
been extinguished; and Rome, no longer mistress of 
the world, had sunk in the darkest ignorance, and the 
loathsome monk told his rosary where thousands had 
once listened entranced to the eloquence of Cicero. The 
rude barbarian of the north had devastated the fairest 
portions of Europe, and literature and science through- 
out universal Christendom had descended into the sickly 
gibberish of the cloister. But while ignorance reigned 
thus triumphant throughout the rest of Europe, the 
Moors cultivated the pursuits of literature with an en- 
thusiasm peculiar to the Arabian character. Issuing 
from the farthest wilds of the desert under the succek* 
sors of Mahomed, they sought to establish, by the 
sword, the doctrines of the koran throughout the world. 
The north of Africa fell an easy prey. Time rolled 
onward, and they passed into Spain ; and the ensan- 
guined plains of Xerxes may tell how matchless is the 
valour of the Arab. 

The inhabitants finding themselves unequal to the 
contest, took refuge in the mountain fastnesses of As* 
turias; while the conquerors, forgetting the interests of 
their religion, resolved to enjoy the reward their arms 
had obtained. No longer thirsting for the glory of con- 
quest, they cultivated the arts of peace, and the sports 
of the tournament were rather pastimes than the pre- 
paration of battle. Singing to the harp was a favourite 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 49 

amusement ; and when the Arab seated himself at even- 
ing at the door of his dweUing, to celebrate the martial 
deeds of the warrior, or sing the praises of his mistress, 
the fire which shot from his eye, and the burning ardour 
which glowed in his strainSj spoke an imagination which 
had been quickened by a warmer sun than shone upon 
his present home. Their poetry was that of the 
lyre, and the sweet ballads which they sung were en- 
livened with all that rich and profuse imagery which is 
so characteristic of the poetry of the south of Asia. In- 
deed, though translated to another clime, the Arab still 
retained all the striking features of his character. Their 
universal taste for the lyre, was the means of introducing 
literature of a much higher order, and the way was soon 
paved for the solid sciences. Government extended her 
warmest patronage, and seminaries were estabUshed in 
every part of .the country. That of Salamanca alone, 
in the day of her pride and prosperity, numbered fifteen 
thousand students. Poetry, music, medicine and the 
mathematics, were pursued with perseverance and the 
most eminent success. It is to them that the science of 
algebra owes its origin; an invention which secured to 
its originator the meed of immortality. The Christian 
nations of Europe were not long in discovering and 
fully appreciating the superior intelligence and refine- 
ment of the Moors. Their ballads were first imitated 
by the Troubadours of Provence, whose poetry exhi- 
bits evident traces of its origin. Song and minstrelsey 
soon became common throughout Europe, and thousands, 
from every country, flocked to drink in knowledge from 
the fountains of Arabian literature. Thus the revival 

£ 



50 MtSCELLANEOlis PIECES IN Pll6sE. 

of lettets may be traced entirely and directly to thS 
Moors. The Moor, above the inhabitants of all othef 
nations, best uhderstood " the art of living." Temperate 
and scrupulous in his various pleasures, yet pursuing 
them with the discrimination of one vsrho would taste 
all their sweets and never tire in their pursuit, he re-^ 
dined at a banquet that never cloyed. 

Nature, too, showered down her bounties upon him 
in rich and magnificent profusion. The I'ine and the 
olive flourished upon the sunny hills, and the lime and 
orange never lost their verdure beneath the genial skies 
of Grenada. Through her plains^ the streamlet ghded 
along, spreading verdure and fertility, and her marble 
fountains poured forth their cooling waters which burst 
from the hills in perennial fullness. In the orange 
groves, and among the vines which crept over the lat- 
ticed bower, the nightingale poured forth her melodious 
strain, which no returning winter was destined to si- 
lence. Around this fairy scene, a cUmate such as never 
breathes on those circling the icy north, threw a charm 
of tenfold beauty and enchantment. Indeed, it was 
such a land as the poets have loved to picture to them- 
selves in their bright and halcyon dreams, without the 
hope of ever beholding it in the form of substantial 
reality. But alas, no prosperity, however great, is proof 
against the caprices of unstable fortune. The star of 
Moorish glory gradually declined, till at length it sunk 
below the horizon. Their final struggle was indeed^ 
brave and desperate, and every energy of the nation 
called into action, but the soil was yet fattened by the- 
best blood of her children. All was unavailing. The 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 51 

Spaniard triumphed in the pride of his victory, and their 
name was blotted from the scroll of nations. A few, 
indeed, continued in the land of their fathers, in their 
idolized Grenada, yielding to their haughty and exult- 
ing conquerors, until tho inquisition completed the 
work of extermination. But all, all that was generous, 
all that was noble, fell in defence of their country, or 
disdaining submission, fled into returnless exile. The 
favour of heaven thus vainly sought by expelling, the 
infidel from his country was rendered in curses, and 
one of the most flourishing nations in Europe and 
Spain, has sunk to a level with the weakest and most 
degraded. 



SPRING. 

REFLECTIONS FOR THE SEASON. 

"For not to use alone did Providence 
Abound, but large example gave to man 
Of grace, and ornament, and splendour rich, 
Suited abundantly to every taste, 
In herb and flower; and in the restless change 
Which on the many-coloured seasons made 
The annual circuit of the fruitful earth." 

Some one has said, that as man lost his happiness in 
a garden, it is there that he recovers it again. The 
thought is a trite one, but the truth is, man's happiness 
is very independent of external circumstances. It is 
the man what he is in himself, that goes to constitute or 



.52 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

destroy his felicity, and not the ever varying circum- 
stances in which he is placed. Yet the occupations of 
a rural life, a refined taste for natural objects, and a 
holy communion with nature in her silence and secret 
solitude, doubtless tends to sooth the mind, tranquilize 
the passions, and thus shed a favourable influence over 
the whole character. Eve is beautifully represented by 
Milton, as lingering sorrowfully over her flowers, while 
about to bid an eternal farewell to the untainted scenes 
of Paradise. 

"Oh flowers, 
That never will in other climate grow, 
My early visitation, and my last 
At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
From the first opening buds, and gave ye home. 
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fowat'i " 

It would seem, that she had transmitted her love of 
these painted favourites to her posterity, for it is not 
until we have steeled our hearts in the vanities of a 
selfish world, embittered our feelings with unhallowed 
strife, or lost the sensibilities of taste in the severe reali- 
ties of time, that we become totally indifferent to the 
beauties and charms of natural scenery. Alas, that it 
should be so — that the world, which, at a distance 
seems so friendly, in which we enter so joyfully in 
youth, should send us back in later life, cold and selfish, 
if not hardened and embittered. To enjoy fully, the 
repose and beauty of rural life, the mind must be disci- 
plined, if not disengaged. It must be free from an un- 
hallowed attachment to the corrupting things of earth, 



MtSdELLANEbtJS PIECES IN PROsfi. 63 

'and the transient gratifications of sensual lust and 
pleasure. He whose heart is throbbing with the strife 
and heat of politics, all of whose thoughts are centred 
in the expected cargo, the bales of merchandise, or 
the noisy scenes of traffic, might walk through laby- 
rinths of roses, and never taste their perfume ; but to 
those who permit themselves to feel, or are not under 
the stern rule of an absorbing passion, the enjoyments 
of the country, or the occupations of a garden, yield a 
pure and sacred pleasure, perhaps the purest that earth 
affords. The rivalries, the clashings, and even the 
strong excitements of society, mar its enjoyment, and 
taint its intercourse with distrust; but there is no selfish- 
ness in nature, there lurks no suspicion beneath the 
petals of this rose, fragrant as it is, and there is no dan- 
ger that the care we bestow on our favourites will be 
ungratefully requited. Their richest bloom and sweetest 
odours, will fully repay our toil, affording a bright con- 
trast to the unfeeling returns we often receive for ten* 
temess lavished on hearts whose sensibilities are dor- 
mant and cold. The occupations of the country, also, 
give constant excitement to the two sweetest emotions — ' 
hope and gratitude. I know not which is the most 
pleasing, to watch the growth of the springing germ^ its 
gradual buddings and unfoldings, or to behold the plant 
We have nurtured with so much care, in the height and 
perfection of its beauty. In the last state, the conscious- 
ness of the fragiUty of the object we look upon, is a 
drawback on our pleasure, even while it elevates our 
admiration. It is that secret feeling of insecurity which 
makes our hands tremble even while holding the bless- 
e2 



54 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES TN PROSE. 

ings of life within their grasp, and it is this which often 
mingles the sweetest draughts in our cup with the poi- 
son of bitterness and sorrow. If the solemn recollection, 
'' thou must die," throws a shade over the brilliancy of 
nature, a severer pang strikes the heart, when, in the 
midst of honour and happiness, we are startled by the 
unwelcome thought of their instability and change. 
The life of man is never at one stay, — 

" But like the brook, 
Forever changing— unperceived the change ; 
In the same brook none ever bathed him twice— 
To tlie same life none ever twice awoke." 

Many such homilies as these does the vegetable world 
read to the reflecting and contemplative mind, eloquent 
with instruction, though that eloquence may be silent 
and still. Nature always appears in a beautiful garb, 
in this region of our wide country. We gaze with de- 
light on her broad blue rivers, whose banks sometimes 
slope in velvet lawns to the water's edge, or abruptly 
rise in their lofty and majestic heights along the wind- 
ing shore — her imposing scenery, so beautifully diversi- 
fied by hill and dale, refreshed by gushing brooks, and 
musical with mountain waterfalls; the solemn stillness 
of our fine forests, which rise like stately colonnades — 
the luxuriant landscape, stretching far with its carpet of 
verdant evergreen — the unnumbered wild flowers that 
enrich the prairies with their varied and glowing hues — 
the brilliant plumage of the feathered choiristers that 
render the groves vocal with their melody, with the 
countless other objects which charm the eye throughout 
the vast museum of nature, tends to bind us by an irre- 



MiSCELLANEOas PIECES IN PROSE. 55 

Bistible attachment to this our native land. At this 
season of the year, the country is rich in flowers, the 
elm-tree waves its luxuriant tassels in the breath of the 
passing gale, vines innumerable entwine their garlands 
around the branches of the trees, while beneath, the 
white and purple violet, embroider the wide-spread 
earth. No wonder that the birds, intoxicated with all 
this blush and fragrance, make the air resound with 
their songs, while the happy bee, surfeiting himself 
among the sweets, unites his musical hum to the glad 
chorus. By and by, as spring is lost in summer, the 
woods become more silent, and nature seems to repose 
from her labour and toil; a new tribe of flowers appear, 
arrayed in deeper tints of crimson and orange, whose 
delicious perfumes scent the air till the last expiring 
hour of summer. How just then is it, that while from 
earth's silent altars there continually ascends the grate- 
ful incense of tributary praise, that intellectual man 
should mingle his offerings with those of material na- 
ture, that ever arise to the throne of Him, "whose ten- 
der mercies are over all his works." 



EVENING REFLECTIONS. 

There is no walk I so much prefer, or oftener seek, 
than that which leads to the spot where, beneath the 
overshadowing pines, sleep the ashes of our departed 
kindred, whose hands used to clasp ours in friendship, 
or with whose joys and sorrows we were once identified. 



56 MiSCELLAKTEOUS PIECES iN PROsfi. 

As you emerge from the little grove through which the 
path suddenly winds, the city of the dead meets the eye 
with pecuUar solemnity. Many serious, but not painful 
rejflections, occupied my mind during the hour I lately 
fepent there ; nor is this period of the year an unappro* 
priate season to visit the place of the dead. The general 
Rejoicing of nature, in her annual resurrection from the 
grave of winter, conveys soothing images to the heart, 
and seems to give a cheerful reply to that anxious 
question, "if these bodies die, shall they live again?" 
The silence of the place was only broken by the distant 
hum of the city, and strangely did the noise and bustle 
of the living invade these sacred precincts. My thoughts 
reverted to former years, when the sleepers around me 
were animated with the hopes and busy cares of exist- 
ence ; a little moment, and those now so flushed with 
life, will be borne hither to repose beside them, and 
another race of beings will take their places, and suc- 
ceed to their anxieties and joys. And is this life 1 How 
dare we trifle it away with a lavish waste, or spend its 
numbered moments in such unworthy pursuits? why 
should we delight to multiply the ties 'that bind us here 
to earth? or to continue our aflfections fondly around 
creatures so frail that they perish even in our embracCj 
whilst the most fervent love, and the passionate entrea- 
ties of a breaking heart cannot for a moment arrest their 
flight. What a powerful appeal do these green hillocks 
of earth make to the passions of men. Come hither ye 
whose hearts throb with hatred, or burn with the un- 
hallowed fires of revenge ; have you ever stood at the 
grave of an enemy? was it this piece of clay that ex- 



MISCELLANEODS PIECES IN PROSE, 57 

cited such fierce emotions? how does the earth cover his 
failings, and his provocations are buried deep together 
with his Ufeless form. But not so our injurious thoughts, 
perhaps our unkind actions; they rise forth upon the 
memory, and bring with them the stinging reflection, 
that regrets are unavaiUng. Why then should we pur- 
sue with unrelenting anger the being of a day, who to- 
morrow may lie down in the dust 1 To weep over the 
grave of a friend is a precious luxury; the reciprocal 
kindness which endeared us in Hfe ; the remembrance 
of the last illness, and the dying hour ; the parting em- 
brace of love ; the hngering gaze, and the solemn word, 
farewell — all these give rise to emotions, which, though 
sad, are yet inexpressibly soothing. "Where rests the 
mortal remains of a friend, there let me linger, and often 
renew my visits, and receive fresh lessons of pious resig- 
nation; but lead me not to the tomb of him whom I 
have injured, hated, or despised. As I walked around, 
I observed from the inscriptions upon the tomb stones, 
that most of those whose memory they preserved, were 
young, very young, to die. Many had been struck 
down in the shade of evening time, but most in the 
bright and sunny morn of life, like the rose, plucked off 
and withered in the prime of its bloom. In a few in- 
stances, a whole family had been taken away at once. 
This seemed truly an enviable boon, when the parents 
had been laid in the same grave, their unsheltered lamb 
had been mercifully folded, and found a resting-place 
at their side. In a few years, what a countless num- 
ber does the fell destroyer lay low, and what a har- 
vest has he already gathered in. Might we but know 



58 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

the separate history of this dust that lies beneath our 
feet, what scenes of care, recklessness, folly, and crime, 
of unblest love, unrewarded virtue, humble goodness, 
arid unacknowledged worth, would pass in review be- 
fore us. Many a head has here been coldly and care- 
lessly laid upon its earthly pillow, upon which a mo- 
ther's heart and tears had rained plenteous blessings. 
Some, doubtless, who at home had been nurtured in 
luxury and affluence, whose every desire was gratified, 
and every wish fulfilled, have become wanderers from a 
father's house, and in a distant country met their early 
fate. Of what little importance to those who are hid 
here in the grave from the storms of life, are the cir- 
t^umstances of honour or poverty that attended them 
on their journey: how vain their struggles and repihings, 
their anxieties and toils; how fleeting their mirth; how 
unsubstantial all but virtue. The phantoms and bub- 
bles we are so eagerly pursuing — the same ardent lust 
for the vanities of time, and the same burning perse- 
verance in the fruitless chase of the perishing objects 
that elude our grasp, were as eagerly sought after by 
■these departed ones. The only diflference between them 
and us is, that while their time and opportunities have 
j)assed away, ours are rapidly passing. 



MISCELLANEO-US PIECES IN PROSE. 5& 

THE FORSAKEN. 

A TALE OF THE WEST. 

There lived some time since in the state of Missouri^ 
on the banks of the Mississippi, two brothers by the 
name of WilUam and Edward Elliot. Tliey were among 
the first who visited that section of the country, and 
settled themselves where now stands the beautiful and 
flourishing village of Herculaneum. 

On account of the vast tribe of uncivilized and fero- 
cious Indians which every where surrounded their young 
but growing settlement, they concluded to rear. their 
habitations within a few rods of each other. Early 
after the completion of their dwellings, they erected for 
the safety of themselves and their families a block house, 
as the first settlers were wont to term them^. but more 
properly speaking, a place of resort in time of danger, 
in which were deposited their arms of defence, as w ,11 
as their implements of agriculture. This infant settle- 
ment, at that time, consisted of three houses only, but 
thinking to render themselves more secure, they formed 
a double wall by means of pickets or small logs of wood, 
heated until they possessed almost the durability of iron, 
then driving them some few feet into the ground, found a 
strong barrier to the entrance of their unfeeling enemies. 

After the completion of this wall, the two brothers, 
well aware of their weak and helpless situation, dug a 
ditch deep and broad, encircUng the former defence. 
These precautions were absolutely requisite to guard 
them from the encroachments of their wild and despe- 



6.0 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROsE. 

rate enemies, whose hands had already been deeply 
dyed in the blood of the innocent and helpless; whose 
hard and hell-deserving hearts had oft times prompted 
them to dash to pieces the lovely infant's head, and 
stand and gaze on the dying angel until the smile of 
scorn played upon their savage lips — until the last faint 
sound of dying agony had sunk in hollow murmurs 
upon the bosom of the breeze. Thus, after much pre- 
caution and labour taken by the two brothers to render 
themselves secure from the danger and deep cunning of 
their enemies, they lived many years in the peaceful and 
quiet enjoyment of each other's society. 

William had only one child, (Frances,) Edward two, 
(Charles and Gonzalvo.) In a skirmish with the In- 
dians, Charles was taken prisoner, and never again re- 
turned to the bosom of his devoted parents. Gonzalvo 
being now deprived of his youthful companion, wept 
day and night, regardless of those around, till in fact a 
consciousness of his utter loneliness seemed to fix itself 
upon his young mind: thus, for many a day, his la- 
mentations for his brother were frequent and loud. 

Scarcely with more rapacity does the rays of the sun 
banish the dew-drop from oif the opening bud, than 
slow revolving time dries the tear in childhood's eye. 
Gonzalvo, now delighted with the unceasing society of 
his cousin Frances, soon began to lose the fond recol- 
lection of his recent loss, or if a sigh chanced to escape 
his lip, the vivacity of his cousin quickly transformed it 
to a smile. As they grew in years, their studies and 
pursuits, their sorrows and their joys, were equal and 
the same. To Ganzalvo, no pleasure was greater than 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 61 

that of climbing to the high cliff top, and leaping from 
one projection of the rock to another, that he might dis- 
play his manly courage to his cousin, while she, on her 
part, delighted no less to gather the fragrant eglantine 
which every where decorated the mountain brow, and 
conveying them home for the sole purpose of beautifying 
Gonzalvo's apartment. 

Thus were these children of nature constantly em- 
ployed until Frances arrived at the age which rendered 
her capable of assisting her mother in the arrangement 
of her domestic concerns, while Gonzalvo aided his fa- 
ther in the cultivation of his growing vineyard. So 
kind, SO obliging, so easy and affable were his manners, 
that his uncle Edward and his father loved him alike. 
Gonzalvo's uncle cherished the fond hope that his daugh- 
ter would find in Gonzalvo a husband and protector, 
should it please God to take him from the world. At 
the age of twenty-one, Gonzalvo assumed an appear- 
ance not likely to oppose his election in the affections of 
any lady, much less in the heart of one who already 
loved him so tenderly and affectionately as did his cousin 
Frances. His tall and manly figure, his deeply dark 
and penetrating eye, his gUttering ringlets of soft black 
hair, that shrouded features most expressive and intel- 
ligent, seemed at once to proclaim him a descendant of 
a noble and superior race. Was Frances, the beautiful, 
the charming Frances, unworthy of all the attractions 
in such a lover 7 She was symmetry itself— her figure 
was commanding and graceful— mine is the task incom- 
petent to describe her angelic loveliness — her forehead 
was smooth and white as polished marble — her eye- 

F 



62 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PRO^E. 

brows beautifully arched and black as the raven's 
plume — her large dark eyes had an inspiration in them 
lit up by a mind of the most exquisite feeling — her 
cheeks surpassed the beauty of the opening rose, and 
when she smiled, beneath her lips of crimson were seen 
teeth of purest white — her neck and bosom could be 
compared to naught but flakes of feathered snow — she 
was all that the heart of man could wish in the choice 
of a partner. Mutually happy in the society of each 
other, time passed pleasantly. But happiness so replete 
as that possessed by Gonzalvo and Frances was too 
pure for this world, and the hand of misfortune, which 
never fails to sprinkle sorrow on the head of all man- 
kind, had not forgotten to reserve a due proportion for 
these young lovers. 

It was late in the fall; the yellow leaves fell rustling 
from their fellows to the ground, and like a veil of 
showery gold, was already covering the bosom of the 
forest, as if to protect it from the first rude and icy 
kisses of the snow storm. 

In the early part of the last century, it was the cus- 
tom for the young men living within a few miles of each 
other to band themselves for a winter hunt — all neces- 
sary preparations being made, the party fell into line 
and bade their friends a fond farewell. My reader may 
inquire, why shoXild they take a fond farewell when 
they were to be absent so short a time. Remember, 
they were not in a country like ours, free from danger 
and lurking enemies. No ! They were in a wide and 
gloomy forest, filled with all kind of ravenous and rapa- 
cious beasts; to these they were exposed, as well as to 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 63 

the sharp and glittering tomahawk of the aborigines of 
America. Thus they lived in a state of perpetual risk 
and danger. Peril and adventure were congenial to 
their nature: surrounded by hostile tribes whose mode 
of warfare was by ambuscade and surprisal, who were 
always prepared for fight and bloodshed. 

As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the 
solitude of ocean — as the bird mingles "mid clouds and 
storms and wings its flight, a mere speck across the 
pathless fields of air, so the man of the west holds his 
course silent and soUtary, but undaunted, through the 
bosom of the boundless forest. Their expectations vie 
in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the de- 
votee or the crusade of the knight errant. They travel 
vast forests, exposed to the hazard of loneliness, sickness, 
lurking enemies and pinching famine. Stormy lakes 
and gushing torrents were no obstacles to souls like 
theirs. In their light boats they would sport hke feathers 
on the wild and restless waves, and dart, as if with the 
swiftness of an Indian's arrow, down the tremendous 
falls of rivers — even their nutriment was snatched from 
the midst of peril and hardship. Their principal food 
consisted of the game of the forest — they clothed them- 
selves from the spoils of the panther, bear, buffalo, and 
tiger, and oft times they were compelled to sleep 'mid 
the thunderings of cataracts, with heaven's blue canopy 
for their shelter. Such were the difficulties the hunters 
of the western forest had to encounter. But to my sub- 
ject. The hunters had been absent but a few days, 
when Alonzo Demetrand, a young gentleman from the 
opposite side of the river, chanced to get acquainted with 



64 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

Frances Elliot; being captivated with her entire loveli- 
ness and beauty, determined, if possible, to address her ; 
accordingly permission being granted by her father, who 
at the same time told Alonzo that Frances had engaged 
herself to her consin Gonzalvo, who had gone to take 
his winter excursion. This did not intimidate the proud 
and haughty spirit of Alonzo. And ah ! soon, very soon, 
did he succeed in gaining her affections. Demetrand 
was wealthy, and so arrayed the splendid baubles of his 
ill-gotten fortune as to seclude from the view of Frances 
the nobleness of her cousin. Suffice it to say, that the 
day for the celebration of their nuptials was set apart. 

Gonzalvo, while absent from the side of his cousin, 
was perfectly inconsolable, and even insensible to all 
around — he, instead of rambling through the wood in 
quest of game, would sit beside some brook whose 
gurgling waters kissed the pebbled shore, or recline 
beneath the towering oak, and listen to the rustling of 
the mountain stream as it dashed its limpid waters 
against the uneven banks which confined its course; for 
hours would he sit near some gigantic tree, whose lofty 
boughs kept out the glad and cheerful beams of the 
great orb of day, whose rays would else insult him with 
their cheerfulness. During his stay in the chase, his 
shelter was the wide extended vaults of heaven, the 
grass turf his pillow; and oft times while musing alone 
in some solitary spot would he break forth in language 
like this: "Now softly let me seize the shepherd's pipe, 
and while I sound a cadence so pathetic, so full of woe, 
the passing breeze shall convey the sound to her I love ; 
and she, merciful as sweet, will send some kind word to 



Miscellaneous pieces in prose, 65 

cheer my lonely bosom." At length, Gonzalvo growing 
impatient to behold the object of his affection, determin- 
ed to leave his companions and hasten home. That night 
his purpose was fully settled, whilst reposing on the 
mountain's crown, he dreamed that Frances had for- 
saken him, and had already become the wife of another. 
The anxiety occasioned by this wandering of his ima- 
gination, awoke him from his slumber. He arose, 
walked to and fro in pensive sadness, till the sun had 
lit the eastern courts of heaven, then rousing his slum- 
bering companions, made known to them his determina- 
tion to return. They bid him forget his wild and delu- 
sive dreams — he heeded not — his sad heart whispered 
him all's not well. Grasping his faithful gun, and bid- 
ding them all adieu, he directed his footsteps towards 
home. He had not travelled far ere he met a messen- 
ger of his father's house, bearing the heart-rending in- 
telligence of his cousin's intended marriage; having 
directed his servant where to find his companions, he 
paused for a moment, as if unconscious what course to 
pursue, but, as delay belongs not to lovers, he hastened 
onward, and soon were hills, streams and vales mea- 
sured by his lonely and solitary step, till reaching the 
heights which overlooked the once loved village, there 
met his view the broad and magnificent river of his own 
native valley, rolling onward its endeared waters, not 
aware of what passed along that had not kissed some 
scene consecrated to his memory. Before him, beneath 
him, lay his father's humble dwelling and his little vine- 
yard. There first 1 drew my breath, here first I ope'd 
my eyes to the light of heaven, and here I'll close them, 
f2 



66 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

cried our youthful lover. To the left lay the farm and 
dwelling of his uncle. There first his youthful heart 
felt the pulse of love — there all nature smiled upon him, 
and hope hailed him from every sun-lit mountain brow: 
before him in the depth of the cliff lay the path along 
which he and Frances had oft times strolled together 
arm in arm. 

How cheerless now those once loved scenes to Gon- 
zalvo as he gazed mournfully on them; each object re- 
called some fond recollection of the past. Shall thy 
forsaken son again revisit thee, he cried, as he hurried 
along the huge fragments of rocks which lay scattered 
around him. Oh! Bellville! Bellville! my native val- 
ley, the home of my youth, 't is no hero, no triumphant 
warrior, that thus approaches thee! 

The sable shades of eve began to close over all around 
as Gonzalvo reached his home. Poor forsaken man, 
murmured he, as he stood on the vestibule of his father's 
dwelling; he entered, found his aged mother alone; she 
with all the fondness of a devoted parent affectionately 
embraced her unhappy son. The contending feelings 
of his agitated bosom were evident indeed. After a 
little composure, he inquired in a low and tremulous 
tone, when Frances was to be married. The reply was, 
to-night. Gonzalvo gazed sadly at his parent, as if he 
wished to bid her a long, and a lasting farewell. 

Slowly retracing his steps, he walked silently, wrapt 
in meditation, towards the dwelling of his uncle. As 
he approached the lighted hall, the half-suppressed 
laughter whispered hira the joy and high toned mirth 
of all within. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 67 

The ceremony being performed, the new married 
couple were about retiring, when a loud and hasty rap 
was heard, announcing the arrival of some unwelcome 
guest — the door was opened — Gonzalvo entered in dis- 
guise — spoke not — but with a firm and steady step ap- 
proached Alonzo, drew his pistol, fired ; Alonzo fell 
tottering to the floor. Gonzalvo smiled in lofty scorn at 
the lifeless and bloody corpse of Demetrand. The noble 
Gonzalvo left the house with as firm a tread as when he 
entered, while his lofty spirit deemed that his purpose 
was but half done — yet his heart felt its utter loneli- 
ness, occasioned by the step taken by his cousin, and he 
seemed determined that it should plunge them all in the 
abyss of misery and destruction. Gonzalvo, on that 
night, had wandered far to the west, but finding no one 
pursued, he determined to return and behold the home 
of his youth, for the last time, where oft he had gam- 
bolled in boyhood's dear hour. Accordingly, he returned 
as morning dispelled the shades of night, but the gloom 
that hovered over the village was deep and lowering. 
As day advanced, the vapours of night collected into 
thicker gloom, and floating down the heights in por- 
tentous volumes, burst in a torrent of overwhelming 
ruin. All was darkened around by the descending 
waters, and the accumulating flood dashing from the 
projections of rocks above, swelled the rivulets in his 
pathway to mighty streams. Gonzalvo stood undaunted 
amid the vasty deep — ever and anon the wild and angry 
waves would break harmless against his side — the rain 
fell on his unprotected head, and the chilling blast 
sighed mournfully through his streaming locks. Look- 



68 Miscellaneous pieces m pROSfl, 

ing around, he paused amid the tumults of nature* 
" Must there be strife among the elements to tell me I 
must no longer live'? Spirits of these hills," he cried, 
" pour not thus your rage on a wretched, forsaken man, 
now compelled this world to roam without a friend — • 
without a home." He startled and smiled at his own 
abjuration. •' The spirit of my father rides not in the 
blast. Ye delegated powers of heaven, launch not this 
tempest on a defenceless head— 'tis not chance, but 
affliction shapes all things to its own likeness. Then 
rain on ye torrents — ye are welcome to Gonzalvo Elliot — ■ 
he can well breast the mountain storm since hope and 
happiness have fled his bosom." Gonzalvo at that mo- 
ment yelled with savage fierceness, and rushing down 
the hazle-crowned pathway, stood in front of his uncle's 
dwelling, with his arms folded across his manly bosom — 
all was silent, save the distant roaring of the mighty 
waters — the clock chimed and pealed the midnight 
hour — he startled and exclaimed; 

"When black, brown night, her dusky mantle spreads, 

And wraps in solemn gloom the sable sky ; 
When soothing sleep her opiate influence sheds, 

And seals in silken slumbers every eye ; 
My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest, 

Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share ; 
But watchful woe distracts my aching breast, 
^ My heart's the subject of corroding care." 

As the last faint sound died away, he looked up, per- 
ceived a light in his cousin's room ; proceeding immedi- 
ately to her apartment, gently raising the latch, opened 
the door, entered, and found her wrapt in quiet slumber, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 69 

he seated himself on the side of her couch, placed his 
hand upon her fair bosom; it heaved and beat violently; 
he kissed her now pale cheeks which he so oft had 
pressed in earlier years; for a moment he gazed on all 
that had once been dear to him, but all, all had fled his 
breast. Another gaze he stole before the deed was done. 
He drew his well tried knife, felt its point, closed his 
eyes, and plunged it deep in her heart. She groaned 
heavily, opened her eyes, and called upon Gonzalvo's 
name for the last time. Gonzalvo now beheld the ob- 
ject of his youthful affection pale and lifeless ; a ghastly 
smile seemed playing on her half closed lip, and her 
once deeply dark and penetrating eye was now dim; her 
polished forehead cold as marble, and death wantoned 
on her unconscious brow. What were the feelings of 
Gonzalvo? What his contemplation? What dreaded 
images rose before his eye, as he gazed with an aching 
heart and burning brow, and with a lip that seemed as 
if some evil spirit had breathed upon him all the fire of 
its own nature! Still his manly face possessed no evi- 
dent signs of the war which raged within, notwithstand- 
ing the many agonizing thoughts that rolled like burn- 
ing lava through his inmost soul. He would sometimes 
press his aching forehead, or close his teeth, as if to 
prevent despair, which mastered his bosom, from an- 
nouncing his dominion by a groan — his eye perhaps 
seemed full of anguish, or the bright flushings of his 
cheek evinced the mighty struggle. No emotion marked 
the inward strife — no fear was his — he yet was silent, 
and seemed tranquil, though deep, burning, and agoniz- 
ing thoughts swayed his agitated breast. The wings 



70 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 

of time as they soar through the night of despair are as 
rapid as when they cut the mid-day sky by joy, Gon- 
zalvo was aroused from his revery by the village clock 
as it chimed and pealed the fourth hour of the night — 
again he mused — again the clock pealed five, and the 
bright beams of morn burst into the apartment, display- 
ing to Gonzalvo the death-like hue that hung over the 
features of the lovely Frances. 

Just as the sun emerged from beneath the distant 
hills, William Elliot, the father of the unfortunate lady, 
entered her apartment; he paused; horror was depicted 
in his countenance as he beheld the lifeless and bloody 
corpse of his daughter:— rushing toward her couch, he 
exclaimed, oh ! my God ! and clasped in his arms the 
inanimate form of his only child. 

Gonzalvo being aroused by the exclamatioh, brandish- 
ed the deadly poignard, which he yet held, and shouted, 
HOLD ! Not all the fiends in darkness combined shall 
deprive me of my victim. At that moment a ray of re- 
turning reason flashed across his darkened mind ; placing 
his hand upon his brow, he said in a calm, yet quivering 
tone, I am revenged. I die in peace — he struck the fatal 
blow — 'twas done, and fell a lifeless corpse at the feet of 
his uncle. The place of interment was beautiful and 
picturesque. It was in a flower garden, situated on a 
rising hill — in front rose the neat, but humble dwelling — 
on one side was an arbour covered with sweet jessamine, 
on the opposite side was seen the beautiful woodbine 
and hawthorn bower, in the rear a large towering rock, 
(on the summit of this rock now stands a shot factory,) 
reared its lofty summit, at the foot of which rose a 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 71 

spreading willow tree, laving its green leaves in a crystal 
stream which winds its course around the hill, and 
pours its water into the Mississippi. 



THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK MOUN- 
TAIN. 

"Whither do you carry me?" cried the distracted 
Hippolita de Montoni, as she was hurried over the 
plain, towards the Black Mountain; "say. mysterious 
being, why am I forced from a parent's roof, and a hus- 
band's arms'?" Still no answer was obtained from her 
inexorable conductor; he laid his finger on his lip in 
token of silence, and continued his swift and unwearied 
steps towards the mountain^ 

It is well known, that the country of Texas is gene- 
rally level and unbroken; but occasionally a hill, that 
cannot with propriety be styled a mountain, rears its 
summit above the plain, to the height of near an hun- 
dred feet, thus relieving the eye of the traveller of the 
monotony so common in large prairies, though to a 
stranger to such scenes, the broad expanse of waving 
green, bounded only by the arched vault of the heavens, 
is no uninteresting sight. 

The Black Mountain is visible for fifteen or twenty 
miles; its appearance at that distance resembles a black 
mass of rock, rising perpendicularly above the plain, 
from which circumstance it derives its name. Its base 
and sides are covered with stinted trees, shrubs, and 



72 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

long grass ; the branches are so closely interwoven, that 
it is almost impossible for the eye to penetrate through 
them, especially at that season of the year when covered 
with foliage. The inhabitants thought it to be infested 
with a band of robbers, and considerable anxiety pre- 
vailed on that account, among the wealthy portion of 
the small community, that located themselves in its vici- 
nity. 

Here resided the Signor Montoni, a Spaniard of noble 
origin, driven from his country by the mean jealousies 
of the nobility, and the ingratitude of his king, he sought 
shelter in the uncultivated regions of Texas, for himself 
and an only daughter, who was the delight and solace 
of his declining years. Hippolita was all a fond father's 
heart could desire — lovely in her person — a sweet dispo- 
sition, blended with piety and filial affection, rendered 
her amiable in the extreme. Charity and benevolence 
glowed within her bosom — the suffering, the poor and 
the wretched, all recognized in her a benefactress. 

Her silvery voice, as she sung for her father at the 
dim twilight of evening, possessed an irresistible attrac- 
tion, and the slightest intonations would fall melodiously 
on the ear of the enraptured listener, wafting him in 
imagination to a world of seraphs. All terrestrial ob- 
jects, save the songstress, were forgotten. When she 
ceased, the spell was broken — the delusion vanished — 
the dreamer awoke from his pleasing anticipations, and 
found himself yet on earth. 

In Spain, she had had numerous suitors; among 
whom was Orlando di Medora, a nobleman high in fa- 
vour with both king and people, and possessed of un- 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 73 

bounded influence over the minds of the generality of 
the nobility. He was haughty, proud and ambitious. 
Covetous of power, he was jealous of any trifling mark 
of distinction, shown by the king to any, save himself. 
'T was this that first aroused his hatred towards the 
Signor Montoni, and finally ended in the banishment of 
the latter. He loved Hippolita for her beauty and wealth; 
but he knew not how to appreciate worth- in woman, 
farther than her riches and personal attractions; a cul- 
tivated intellect had no charms for him. Avarice and 
love of power were his besetting passions; and to satisfy 
these inordinate desires, he hesitated not to overstep the 
pale of prudence and moderation. He tried every eflfort, 
but in vain, to induce her to become his. She alike 
loathed his person, and scorned his oflfers. Rather 
wouM she beg bread for herself and aged parent, than 
remain one moment under obligations to such a charac- 
ter. Still he ceased not to importune her. At length 
she informed her father that the addresses of Don Or- 
lando were improper and insulting. Stung to the quick 
at the disappointment of his long cherished hopes, and 
maddened with rage, he departed, silently vowing the 
most dreadfiil revenge. 

His persecution of Signor Montoni, which had ceas- 
ed, but for a time, was now renewed with increased 
vigour. The king, wearied with his daily importuni- 
ties, signed the article of expulsion, though the next 
moment he regretted that he had done so; for Montoni 
had watched over his youth, and instructed him in all 
the intrigues of the court. But the deed was done— 
the royal signature was aifixed, beyond the power of 

G 



74 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

recall. He bade Montoni adieu, with tears in his eyes, 
condemning himself for being so hasty. 

Among the companions of his flight, was an orphan,, 
whom he had reared from a child, with all the kindness 
and affection of a father. He entreated Montoni, with 
tears, to be permitted to accompany him, which was 
granted, for he was loath to part with his adopted son. 
Theodore loved Hippolita with a fervency amounting 
almost to adoration, yet he was a foundling, dependent 
on the bounty of her father for subsistence; but he never 
let even so much as a look betray his passion ; rather 
than give her a moment of uneasiness, he would let 
concealment, like " a worm in the bud," undermine his 
own health. He had once saved her life when crossing 
the ocean, and was amply repaid with her affections 
and boundless gratitude. She thought she could never 
repay the obligation conferred upon her by one, who had 
well nigh lost his own life in the attempt. 

Two years had elapsed in their adopted home of exile 
and happiness, and Theodore was the declared lover of 
Hippolita. Her father approved her choice, for Theo- 
dore was all a woman could desire — benevolent in his 
disposition — manly in his person, without the vices and 
follies peculiar to his age. He was mild and diffident, 
when not excited; but when any thing occurred to 
arouse the dormant passions of his soul, his features 
would kindle with animation, and his eye lighten with 
a brilliancy that would strike the beholder with awe. 
Fearless in danger, he never thought of self; his mo- 
tions were quick and rapid as the mountain-cat. Under 
the care of Signor Montoni he had obtained a liberal 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 75 

and somewhat polished education; man had never been 
his study, and in all the ardency of a generous and en- 
thusiastic mind, he considered all men in the light of 
brothers ; he thought his patron a specimen of mankind ; 
but alas ! he too soon found out his error. 

The day for the celebration of the nuptials was ap- 
pointed, and the interim was spent by the lovers in a 
succession of all those calm and delicious pleasures and 
schemes of future bliss, true love is able to awaken. It 
was in the month of August, and the hot, sultry days, 
were generally closed with a stroll in a beautiful garden 
by moonlight. The flowers were many and variegated, 
and their delightful fragrance came stealing o'er the 
senses, producing a pleasing sensation, that calmed all 
the fears so incident to lovers. 

The evening which was to complete their happiness, 
was one of that bland kind that sometimes closes a day 
of intense sultriness, and Hippolita, arrayed in her 
bridal dress, took a turn in the garden, to collect and 
compose her confused ideas. She had reached the 
farthest extremity of a long walk, and sat down in an 
arbour to rest. Suddenly there appeared before her 
astonished eyes, a man, enveloped in a cloak, with a 
mask over his features. She uttered a piercing shriek, 
and attempted to spring past him ; but he caught her 
by the arm, and pointing a dagger to her bosom, com- 
manded her to be silent as she valued her life. 

"Resistance is vain," said he, "j^ou are now mine; 
heaven has not the power to release you, but by death. 
I have watched you long — I have loved you long — and 
now, rfidemption is hopeless." 



76 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

As he ceased, he put his hand in his bosom, and 
drew from thence a small silver whistle, which he blew 
loud and shrill. In a few moments, four armed mep 
appeared at the entrance of the arbour. " Go," said he 
to them, " and have the lady's apartment prepared 
against our arrival," 

The men disappeared, and turning again to Hippo- 
lita, he said, "come, lady, you must with me — the sun 
is getting low — your absence will not long remain un- 
noticed, then the hounds will be in the pursuit," 

Hippolita, aroused from her stupor, threw herself at 
his feet, and in the agony of despair, she exclaimed, 
"In pity to a bereaved father, spare me; let me return 
to him, and heaven will reward you; for alas! I am the 
only support he has in his old age, and should he lose 
me, he will soon be carried to his grave, a broken-hearted 
old man. As you hope for mercy hereafter, deny me 
not!" 

"Enough! enough!" exclaimed the stranger, in a harsh 
voice. " Fool! dost thou think I have spent months in 
the attainment of this interview, to forego the advantage 
now? No; night after night have I lain upon the bare 
ground, with no covering but the spangled canopy of 
heaven, watching for thee ; and now, that I have the 
long-sought treasure within my power, think you I 
■would release it for any trifling consideration you can 
offer? You must to the mountain, lady, and there 
spend your days with one who devotedly loves you." 

At the mention of the mountain, all the horrid tales 
of murder and robbery, which had long been associated 
with its name, rushed through her distracted imagina- 



HrSCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 77 

tion. A cold shivering came over her, and with a cry 
resembling that of the timid hare when grasped within 
the talons of the vulture, she sank senseless at his feet. 

He stooped to raise her in his arms, and at that mo- 
ment received a blow on the 'uack of his head, which 
X)recipitated him to the earth. In an instant he was on 
his feet, and faced his assailant with his sabre in his 
hand. "Dog!" he shouted, in a voice of thunder, " how 
dare you interfered' and with one plunge, he buried the 
weapon to the hilt in the body of the old gardener, who 
rolled to the ground in the agonies of death. Without 
loss of time, he raised the stjll insensible girl from the 
ground, and fled in the direction of the Black Mountain. 

In the mean time, a numerous company had assem- 
bled to honour the nuptials of the unfortunate pair. All 
was joyful hilarity. The maidens had the most beauti- 
ful flowers fancifully interwoven in their hair. A gar- 
land of roses had been procured, with which they in- 
tended to crown the bride. Evening came — and her 
father grew impatient at her long absence. He sent a 
servant to her room, to desire her to come down; stp^ 
swer came that she was not there. Theodore arb^ef 
with evident anxiety depicted on his countenance, and 
said he would seek her in the garden. They awaited 
a long time in silence, for his return. A kind of vague 
suspicion crossed the mind of Signer Montoni. He 
arose and walked the room with disordered steps, paus- 
ing to listen every few minutes, as his ear caught a 
sound without. An hour elapsed; still no tidings of 
Hippolita or Theodore. " What can be the meaning 
of this unaccountable delay'?" murmured the now really 
g2 



78 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

alarmed father, opening the door. At that instant 
Theodore rushed in, his countenance pale, and his eyes 
glancing wildly around the room; but not finding the 
object of their search, he struck his forehead forcibly 
■with his clenched hand. 

Montoni grasped him by the arm. " Theodore !" he 
cried, "where is my child, my Hippolita'? what has 
happened? tell me instantly, I beseech you." 

Theodore turned on him a bewildering look; and 
then, as if suddenly recollecting himself, he exclaimed: 
"By heavens! it may not be too late.'' Then raising 
his voice, until it rang loud and clear: " Ho! lights here, 
and away to the mountain, I will save her yet." 

Then in a hoarse, whispering voice, he told Signor 
Montoni of the result of his search. He had examined 
the garden twice over, and finding no trace of Hippo- 
lita, he proceeded to the extreme end of the avenue. 
He was turning to pursue his search in another direc- 
tion, when he heard a deep groan. He listened — it was 
repeated — and rushing into the arbour, he was horror- 
struck to see the gardener weltering in his blood, with 
scarcely any signs of life remaining. Near him lay a 
well known object — the veil belonging to Hippolita — 
he raised it — it was stained with blood. A presentiment 
of her death rushed across his mind, and uttering a 
deep sigh, he sank on the ground. In a few moments, 
reason resumed her sway — he arose — put the blood- 
stained veil in his bosom, and was hastily leaving the 
arbour, when another groan recalled him. He as quickly 
returned, and raising the old man's head, "Speak!" he 
cried, " Hippolita! where is shel" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 79 

The gardener slowly unclosed his eyes, and gazing 
on Theodore with a vacant stare, with difficulty uttered, 
"The Mountain!" then closed them forever. Theo- 
dore, in a state of mind bordering on desperation, re- 
traced his steps to the house. 

He now produced the veil, which Signer Montoni 
immediately recognised ; with tears coursing down his 
furrowed cheeks, he took it, and eagerly kissing it, ex- 
claimed in a broken voice, " O ! my Hippolita, my child, 
art thou indeed lost to me forever!" Overpowered with 
his emotions, he sank on a sofa, and covering his face 
with his hands, groaned aloud. 

During the foregoing scene, the utmost confusion 
prevailed throughout the house. Domestics running to 
and fro — some procuring torches — others arming them- 
selves with whatever they could get, Theodore hastily 
belting on a sword, and sticking a brace of pistols in his 
girdle, besought Signer Montoni to compose himself un- 
til their return, vowing to release Hippolita or perish in 
the attempt. 

" Go my son, said Montoni, wringing his hand, re- 
store my child, and may heaven reward and bless you." 

Theodore quitted the apartment, and found a consi- 
derable number of the peasants of the neighbourhood, 
together with the servants of the family, waiting for 
him. Placing himself at their head, they proceeded 
with rapid steps towards the mountain. 

We now return to our heroine and her captor, who 
ere this had arrived at the foot of the dreaded mountain; 
after striving in vain to learn the intention of her con- 
ductor, she had again relapsed into insensibility. Again 



80 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

he had application to the whistle, and the men who had 
been despatched to make ready the apartment, again 
appeared, and one of them, in reply to a question of the 
Captain, (which appeared to be his title,) said, " AH is 
ready," and falling in single file behind, they began 
slowly to ascend. The path, winding round the side of 
the mountain, was extremely difficult to climb, and 
withal so narrow as to admit but one person at a time. 
The main body of the rock was divided into two distinct 
parts, as if it had been rent asunder by some sudden 
convulsion of the earth. The perpendicular sides of 
each were covered with fragments of rocks, jutting over 
the abyss below, striking the beholder with awe, at the 
grandeur and sublimity of the works of nature. 

When Hippolita recovered her senses, she found her- 
self in a low rocky apartment, or rather cavern, lying 
on a couch of the softest texture. There was an aper- 
ture in the top, through which darted the pale beams of 
the moon in sportive playfulness. Her conductor was 
seated a short distance from her, absorbed, apparently, 
in deep meditation. She uttered a low sigh, and faintly 
asked, "Where am IT' 

He started up, and approaching her, said, "Lady, 
what would you? command, for you are mistress here, 
and all are your slaves within this mountain." 

"O! then, conduct me to my poor heart-broken fa- 
ther," said she, ''if you have the feelings of a man, let 
me go, and may benignant heaven reward your in- 
dulgence." 

" Cease, lady, this useless importunity. Any thing, 
save liberty, I will grant you; but from this place you 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 81 

cannot go ; neither can any force tear you hence. Long 
have I wooed you — my love you derided, and treated 
my person v^ith scorn and contempt. You had no pity 
for me, v^hen my person and fortune were at your feet — 
when the flame that burned within was consuming me. 
Now!" he exultingly continued, while a fiendish glare 
shot from his eyes, " now I have you in my power — by 
heavens ! you shall feel my revenge. Look ! Hippolita 
de Montoni, and say, if you remember aught of these 
once scorned features." 

The cloak fell from his shoulders — the mask from his 
face, and Orlando di Medora stood before her. 

" Gracious Father ! is it possible? Medora T' 

" Yes, lady, the rejected Medora stands in person be- 
fore you ; I have been contemned, despised, and thrust 
from the Spanish court. Insulted and abused, I now 
live but for revenge. It is the air I breathe — the food 1 
eat. Were it not for the consolation, that one day I 
shall be dreadfully, aye, tremendously revenged, life 
would be hateful." Wrought up to a paroxysm of rage, 
by the arousing of his slumbering passions, his counte- 
nance became livid — ^his features distorted — his teeth 
clenched, and every muscle strained to the utmost, he 
stood the personification of the Furies. But turning 
again to Hippolita, he continued in a lower voice, " and 
you, I could not forget, after all your cruelty to me ; you 
made an impression on my mind, never to be erased. 
Say, then, will you be mineT' 

"Never!" she answered firmly. "Sooner would I 
be wrapped in my winding sheet, and laid in the cold 
earth." 



82 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

A cloud, black as midnight, gathered upon his brow, 
and his e3^es flashed as he exclaimed, " then you shall 
be mine by force. Think not that I am jesting; you 
are in ray power; human means can avail you nothing; 
consider, lady, it will be your best interest to acquiesce." 

" Consider! no, not for one moment; I am resolved." 

" Then the result be upon your own head;" and he 
caught her in his arms, endeavouring to smother her 
cries with his hand. With supernatural strength she 
broke from him, and fled to the furthermost extremity 
of the cavern. Again he approached her, when draw- 
ing a small, glittering dagger from her bosom, she 
brandished it above her head, and warned him to stand 
back. " Off, villain," she cried, "and urge me not too 
far, for I am desperate." 

At this moment, a crash of fire-arms shook the cave, 
and a soldier rushed in, pale and bloody. " We are 
attacked," he exclaimed, " haste and support your dis- 
mayed troops. The peasantry, fighting like devils in- 
carnate, have gained the first platform, and in less than 
an hour you will have no mountain to defend." 

"Damnation!" exclaimed Orlando, and he rushed 
out, forgetting in his haste to secure the door. Hippolita 
perceived, and took advantage of his neglect. She 
passed out immediately, and followed the path up the 
mountain, hoping to find means of descent on the other 
side. Occasionally, as she heard the irregular firing 
of muskets, and the mingled execrations and groans of 
the wounded and dying, she would offer up a fervent 
prayer for the success of the assailing party. On she 
went, until exhausted with fatigue, she threw herself 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE, 83 

down on the summit of the mountain, and soon forgot 
her trials in the sleep of insensibility. 

The event of the attack proved fatal to Don Orlando. 
The peasants, with Theodore at their head, performed 
wonders. Twice had the robbers been driven from 
their footing, and obliged to seek shelter higher up the 
mountain. At length, reduced in number, and dispirit- 
ed, they reached their last hope, the summit. There 
they resolved to repulse the assailants or perish ; they 
knew it was death if taken, and they preferred yielding 
their lives in defending their all, to being hung on a 
gibbet, food for vultures. Theodore thought it advisable 
to wait for the return of day, before he attacked them 
in this, their last, and strongest hold. The top of the 
mountain was entirely bare, without the vestige of a 
tree to afford the least shelter to these devoted men. As 
soon as day-light appeared, the attack was resumed. 
At every discharge, some one of the robbers fell; until 
at length they were reduced to five men besides the 
commander. Still they refused to yield. But what 
were the feehngs of Theodore, when Orlando appeared 
on the edge of the rocks, holding the almost fainting 
Hippolita by the arm. At the same instant, Signor 
Montoni was descried at the foot of the mountain, with 
out-stretched arms, exclaiming, " Save, oh save my 
daughter." 

For a moment Theodore was incapable of action, but 
soon recovering himself, he directed his voice to the 
daring bravo on the mountain. 

"Restore the maiden to the arms of her distracted 
father, and I here pledge you my honour, free pardon 



84 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

shall be granted to you and your surviving comrades. 
Refuse, and by all that's sacred, you die within this 
hour." 

"Vain boaster, fire! and sign the death-warrant of 
the object of your solicitude," said Orlando, at the same 
time pointing a pistol at the breast of Hippolita. "I 
defy you," he continued, " I defy and despise you. If I 
die, this my victim accompanies me to the grave. Draw 
off your myrmidons, ere I send this ball to her heart." 

" Insatiate monster," exclaimed Theodore, and in an 
instant his resolution seemed to be taken. Springing 
from the point of the rock on which he had been stand- 
ing during the above colloquy, he disappeared in the 
recesses of the mountain. Almost instantly he re- 
appeared, bounding along the edge of the precipice, on 
which still stood the bravo and his beautiful victim. 
Orlando was on the alert, and perceived him the mo- 
ment he placed his foot on the top of the rock. When 
he was within a few yards of them, Orlando raised his 
voice till it echoed among the crags, like the hoarse 
murmuring of distant thunder. 

"Approach," he cried, " and she dies. Advance but 
a foot, and if there is strength in my arm, yon old man 
is childless." 

The report of a pistol was heard, and Theodore re- 
ceived a ball through the flesh part of his left arm. 
Rendered furious by restraint, and goaded on by thoughts 
of revenge, he forgot the imminent peril of Hippolita — 
he measured the distance that separated them, with his 
eye. Orlando kept his threatening posture, with his 
finger pressing the trigger, and the muzzle pointing at 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 85 

the heart of Hippolita. She turned on Theodore an 
imploring look— it was too much. Cluick as thought 
his sword was in his hand, and half the distance was 
cleared, when, oh heaven ! the murdered girl rolled at 
his feet. Orlando fired on the first motion of Theodore; 
his aim was too true, the ball pierced her heart, and she 
fell a corpse. 

Theodore paused— it was but for a moment; with the 
swoop of the eagle, he darted on his prey— lightning 
gleamed from his eyes, and the strength of a thousand 
seemed concentrated in his single arm. Orlando was 
on his guard, and received the first assault of Theodore 
with admirable coolness. Theodore, regardless of life, 
fought with all the impetuosity characteristic of his na- 
ture. On the other hand, Orlando knew if he could 
overcome his opponent, life and liberty were his ; their 
leader conquered, the peasants could soon be put to 
flight; he therefore acted only on the defensive, receiving 
and parrying his thrusts, he permitted him to exhaust 
himself by exertion, and then closed in the mortal strug- 
gle. Blow followed blow in rapid succession, and Theo- 
dore began to fail; he knew it, and therefore collecting 
his remaining strength for one mighty effort, he made a 
desperate plunge, but was anticipated by Orlando, who 
sprang aside, thrusting his sword at the same time. 
Theodore received it m his side. His sword fell from 
his grasp, he staggered, but did not fall. Suddenly new 
life seemed to be mfused in his limbs, he darted forward, 
and caught Orlando round the waist, who httle expect- 
ing such an attack, was not prepared to avoid it. "Now, 
damned villain!" he shouted, "we shall die together;" 

H 



86 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN PROSE. 

and with the guilty wretch writhing in his arms, leaped 
over the precipitous side of the mountain. 

The spectators hardly dared breathe during the com- 
bat, but when they saw the termination, one mighty 
groan reverberated among the crags, and echoed along 
the sides of the mountain. They hastily secured the 
remaining robbers, who threw down their arms, and 
begged for quarter, and then hurried down the steep, to 
find the body of the ill-fated Theodore. Four of the 
peasants bore the hapless Hippolita on their shoulders, 
bewailing the hard fate of so lovely a being. 

At the foot of the mountain they found the Signer 
Montoni, but alas, little resemblance of his former ve- 
nerable features remained. When he saw his beloved 
daughter fall, pierced with a bullet, he raved, tore his 
silvery locks, and beat his breast; at length, exhausted, 
he fell on the rocks, where he continued striking his face 
against the sharp points, until death released him. 

Little remains to be told of this sad tragedy. They 
found the bodies of Orlando and Theodore, the former 
still in the grasp of the latter, lying in the bottom of the 
valley, but in so mutilated a condition, it was almost 
impossible to distinguish them, Orlando was buried on 
the spot; a great portion of the peasants were averse to 
giving burial to such a monster, but humanity triumphed. 

Signer Montoni, his daughter, and Theodore, were 
interred in one grave, in a delightful and fertile valley, 
at the southern border of which a well is pointed out, 
whose pure water still bubbles up from its fountain, and 
laves the moss and weeds on the bosom of their tomb. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 

IN VERSE. 



THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 

"In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole." 

Land of my birth ! dear native home ! 

Though exiled here, my heart's with thee 
My fancy flies o'er ocean's foam, 

Beyond the deep and heaving sea. 
To Britain's fertile fields and strand, 

Isle of the beautiful and free ! 
My absent, loved — my native land, 

My thoughts forever dwell with thee. 

Bright spot! scene of my infant joys! 

I long to tread thee once again — 
To see thy glorious sun arise, 

On moor, on mountain, and on plain, 
To join the gay and merry crowd, 

That wander on the banks of Tweed; 
To hear the throstle whistle loud. 

And speckled lark sing in the mead. 



88 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

To see the sportive salmon leap, 

And watch the angler with his rod, 
Or start the sea-gulls where they sleep, 

In rocks that o'er the ocean nod. 
How oft have I at morning dawn, 

Wandered along that pebbled shore, 
High o'er my head a rock-piled wall, 

And at my feet the great deep's roar. 

Where are those happy days now fled? 

O ! will they never more return? 
Must I lie far from kindred dead 7 

A stranger-land contain my urn? 



TO DEATH. 

"But who shall teach us when to look for thee ?" 

What art thou mighty Death? 

A terror and a power, 
That takes away the breath, 

Without a single hour. 
For blind unconscious man. 

To think of deeds that he has done, 
Thy desolation scan — 

Or visions that he's just begun. 

All! all! thou killest all! 

Of every age and lot, 
Bearing the sable pall 

To palace and to cot; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE, 89 

The pampered monarch on his throne, 
The beggar housed with want alone, 
Must yield within the self-same hour, 
A prey to thy victorious power. 

O! vain the eaglet's plume, 
That sunward bears his form. 

Above the deepening gloom, 

' And terrors of the storm : 
Still urge him on with eager flight. 
Far, far away from human sight. 
Yet vain is that free pinion's might. 
To reach beyond thy arrow's flight. 

Thou mak'st the dark cold grave. 

Thy casket for the gems of earth — 
The hallowed and the brave. 

The loved — yea, all of proven worth ; 
Empires of high renown, 
The sceptre and the crown, 
Thou snatchest from aflfection's scanty store. 
And to the sufferer's heart returnest them no more. 

The babe unknown to grief, 

The maid betrothed, or blushing bride, 
The battle's laureled chief. 

The hero, or the nation's pride; 
The poet, bending o'er his lyre. 
Flushed with unearthly fire. 
And every thing that hath, or will have breath, 
Must bow to thee, triumphant conqueror, death! 
h2 



90 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 



TO " SWEET HOME." 

" There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest." 

Oh strike that note for the exile's sake, 
To soothe his sorrowing heart-string's ache, 
While visions of home and a mother's smile, 
His weary, wandering course beguile ; 
They are far away, where the hills are high, 
And valleys between them peacefully lie. 

Oh, strike that note for the young wife's sake, 
Who in early youth a vow did take, 
Which led her along in the path of one. 
Whose course was towards the setting sun : 
One tear she shed with affection's eye. 
While her young heart quailed from her destiny. 

Oh strike that note for the soldier's sake, 
While danger and death his slumber break ; 
He was dreaming but now, of the woodbine cot, 
Which contains the all of his earthly lot, 
The lisp of his infant strikes his ear, 
But the clarion sounds of the battle near. 

Oh strike that note for the sailor's sake. 

As he cleaves the sea with a foamy wake, 

Fast fade the blue lines of his native land, 

His feet will soon press on a foreign strand, 

His heart — it is pained ; for he loves his dear home, 

But is doomed o'er the world of waves to roam. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 91 

Sweet home ! how many hours hast cheered ! 
How many an airy castle reared! 
Thy shuple strains and thy simple tale 
Are heard in the castle, the hall, the vale; 
The milkmaid carols thy verse to the Idne, 
And the beauty's last song of the night is thine. 



FRAGMENT. 

"We shall not dwell within the grave, 
We shall not sink to rise no more." 

The melting snow — returning spring — 
And all the birds that sweetly sing — 
The budding trees — the opening flowers — 
The growing grass — the shady bowers — 
The sprouting grain — the gentle heat — 
Reviving vines — all nature sweet — 
Declare to us that man shall rise, 
And live forever though he dies! 
The frosts of death shall pass away, 
Dissolved by an eternal day; 
The trumpet shall the dead awake; 
The silence of the grave shall break ; 
And man shall stand before the throne, 
And there be tried for all he's done. 



92 MISCEIiLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

AUTUMN. 

"And woods begin to wear the yellow leaf." 

The loud wind moans in the shivering trees, 

For the summer's reign is past, 
There 's music wild in the singing breeze. 

In the requiem voice of the blast; 
And a change has come o'er the golden flowers, 

For their scented breath has gone. 
The music too of the summer bowers, 

To brighter climes has flown. 

O'er thy spirit's hopes has the breath of years, 

Come like the autumn frost; 
From thy dream of life dost thou wake in tears, 

To weep for loved ones lost. 
Then list to the sounds of the autumn wind, 

See the summer foliage fade, 
It leaves the broken flowers behind. 

As it sweeps through valley and glade. 

Has thy kindred ones, the closing tomb. 

Shut from thy tearful sight? 
And art thou left through years of gloom. 

To mourn their early blight? 
The green that waves o'er their quiet sleep, 

Shall change to a deadlier pale. 
And o'er their heads shall the wild winds sweep. 

With a low and solemn wail. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 93 

Dreamer! is there one cherished flower, 

Thou would'st not see decay'? 
Dost thou fear in some o'ercoming hour, 

To see it fade away'? 
Yet the winter's spirit will storm the air. 

And sterner winds will blow; 
Till all that is left of the summer fair, 

To its angry breath shall bow. 



REST IN HEAVEN. 

" Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." 

Should sadness o'er thy brow, 

Its darkened shadows fling, 
And hopes that cheer thee now, 

Soon leave thee sorrowing; 
Should pleasure at its birth, 

Fade like the hues of even. 
Turn thou away from earth. 

There 's rest for thee in heaven. 

If life shall ever seem 

To thee a toilsome way, 
And gladness cease to beam. 

Upon its clouded day — 
If like the weary dove. 

O'er shoreless ocean driven, 
Turn thou thine eyes above. 

There's rest for thee in heaven. 



94 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

But if bright thornless flowers, 

Throughout thy pathway bloom, 
And gaily speed the hours, 

Unchanged by earthly gloom, 
Still let not every thought, 

To this poor earth be given, 
Nor always be forgot, 

Thy better rest in heaven. 

When sickness pales thy cheek, 

And dims thy sinking eye, 
And pulses low and weak, 

Tell thee that thou must die ; 
Sweet hope shall whisper then, 

Though thou from earth be riven, 
There 's bliss beyond thy ken. 

There 's endless rest in heaven. 



WHAT IS LIFE"? 

"Its tears and sorrows, cares and strife, 
All fondly echo what is life?" 

Life — ^it is like the bubbles that float, 

In the wake of the swifl;ly gliding boat ; 

They sparkle and dance in the rays of the sun, 

A wave dashes o'er them — they are vanished and gone i 

Life — it is like the bud that blows soon, 
In the rays of the morning, yet withers ere noon. 
Its leaves are all shed — its fragrance is gone — 
'Tis remembered no more at the set of the sun! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 



95 



Life— it is like the taper's dim glow, 

Near spent in its socket 'tis glimmering low; 

It flickers awhile in the wasting of light, 

Then sinks down in darkness— extinguished in night. 

Life_it is like the morning's clear sky, 

With glory and splendour it breaks on the eye; 

Yet the black tempest comes, its fierce wrath to display, 

And scenes rich in beauty are soon swept away. 

Life_it is like the evening of day. 

When the thick clouds are scattered, and storms fled 

away, 
When the sun's setting beams have all burnished the 

west, 
And the tints of the rainbow enliven the east. 

Yet the sun soon is set, the bright rainbow doth fade, 
And night vcileth all in her mantle of shade; 
Yet the morn will return, and the bright sun arise, 
And gild with new splendours the unclouded skies! 

Then life will be hke — when that morning shall come, 
Which shall call from their graves the just to their 

home ; 
'T will be hke its great giver — no taint or alloy — 
'T will be pure and unmixed — and ineffable joy. 



96, MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 



A NIGHT IN JUNE. 

"No darkling tempest gathers o'er our head, 
But one clear summer sky around ua spread." 

Night steals upon the world — the shades 

With silent flight are sweeping down 
To steep as day's last glory fades, 

In tints of blue the landscape frown; 
The waves are still — deep slumber holds 
The dewy leaves — the night-wind folds 
Her melancholy wing, and sleep 
Is brooding on the pulseless deep. 

The willows 'mid yon dark blue rocks, 

Are bending o'er the waters mild, 
Like a young mother's pendant locks. 

Low hanging o'er her sleeping child; 
The flowers that fringe the purple streams, 
Are sinking to their evening dreams, 
And earth appears a lovely spot, 
Where sin and passion visit not. 

But see! such pure and beautiful, 

And glittering mysteries spring to birth 
In yon bright depths, they render dull 

The loveliest tints that mantle earth : 
The heavens are bending blue and fair. 
And silvery night — gems clustering there^ 
Seem, as on high they glow and burn, 
Bright blossoms o'er day's shadowy urn. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 97 

At this still hour, when mystic songs 

Are floating through night's glowing noon, 

How sweet to view those starry throngs, 
Glitter around the throne of June! 

To see them in their watch of love, 

Gaze from the holy heavens above, 

And in their robes of glory roam, 

Like angels o'er the eternal dome. 

Their light is on the ocean isles, 
'Tis trembling on the mountain stream, 

And the far hills beneath their smiles 
Seem creatures of a blessed dream; 

Upon the deep their brightness lies. 

Reflected from the unclouded skies, 

And comes soft-flashing from its waves. 

Like sea-gems from their sparry caves. 

Why gaze I on these scenes so longl 
'T was here I gazed in years gone by. 

Ere life's cold winds had swept along. 
My fancy's rich and glorious sky; 

Those bright, those peaceful early years, 

The heart with gloom, the eye with tears 

Is deeply fill'd, as now I sigh 

O'er golden scenes in memory. 

Aye, here I gazed! the night-bird still 
Pours her sweet song, the starhght gleams 

Still tinge the flowers and forest-hill, 
And music gushes from the streams; 
I 



98 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

But I am changed! I feel no more, 
The sinless joys that charmed of yore, 
And the blest years so far departed, 
Come but to mock the broken-hearted. 



ODE, 

SUNG AT THE ANNUAL EXHIBITION OF PHILLIPS EXETER 
ACADEMY, AUGUST 22, 1832. 

"And we must separate, the little fleet, 
May scatter widely, never more to meet. 
Except by chance upon the tossing waves." 

Days of our youth with swiftest haste, 

Your pleasures glide away, 
And all the sportive hopes that gild 

The morning of life's day; 
But for awhile they gaily chase 

Their shifting shadows on, 
Then filled the course of early hours, 

They are forever gone. 

Life is a constant changing scene, 

Where friendship that endears. 
By time's relentless hand is riven. 

And gladness turned to tears; 
Its bright and halcyon hours are fleet, 

As is a transient dream ; 
And clouds obscure the blithsome joys. 

That bask in morning's beam. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 99 

The year that's past— where hath it gonel 

Its charms and pleasures sped 1 
The sunny hours that o'er us shone — 

Where hath that splendour fledl 
Into the gulf of buried years, 

And we are left to mourn, 
And pay the tribute of our tears, 

To memory's lonely urn. 

This day we part and bid these scenes, 

A long and sad farewell, 
But round them oft in other days, 

Will fond affection dwell. 
In deathless memory they shall live, 

Where'er in life we stray, 
And will beguile our sorrows, as 

We tread its weary way. 

And as we part, and distant far 

From these loved scenes are gone, 
As in its swift and wonted course. 

The stream of time flows on. 
May we all know the highest bliss 

That to this earth is given, 
And seek at last the enduring joys 

Of an eternal heaven. 



100 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 



SONG. 

"Youth and the opening flower, 

May look like things too glorious for decay." 

The roses of spring may be blooming, 

The xephyrs of spring may be heard, 
The trees in their pride may be blooming, 

And shelter the light bounding bird; 
Yet the wild winds may wake from their slumber, 

And scatter the roses of spring, 
And rending the green boughs asunder, 

Alarm to the songster may bring. 

The rich fruits of summer may ripen, 

The green- wood may offer its shade ; 
The cheeks of the maiden may brighten, 

In the bower that her lover hath made; 
Yet the cold days of autumn are coming, 

And the green boughs of summer must fade, 
And soon where the streamlet is running, 

The leaves of the bower must be laid. 

And thus to the freshness of beauty. 

Succeeds the rich summer of life, 
When the ardour of youth yields to duty, 

To manhood's dark sorrows and strife: 
As the rude winds of autumn will sever 

The flowers which the spring-time hath borne, 
So the cold hand of time will soon wither. 

The bloom which young beauty hath worn. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 101 



I will not leave you comfortless.— JbAn xiv. 18. 

I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.— Sisi. xiii. 5. 

Whene'er by fate I'm doomed to drink the bitter 
streams of woe, 

That through the desert waste of life in fearful torrents 
flow, 

When bending 'neath the load of grief, and every ga- 
thered ill, 

How soothing the Redeemer's words, — ' Peace, troubled 
soul,' " be still." 

When the rude tempests round me sweep, and waves 
rage loud and high, 

I brave the terrors of the deep, but see no haven nigh, 

Behold He comes with friendly hand, o'er the dark wa- 
tery grave, 

To hush my fears, to still my cries, my faithless soul to 
save. 

When all the pleasures earth can yield, have vanished 

from my breast. 
And the vain world affords my soul no heritage of 

rest. 
He tells me of the blessed boon to weary mortals given, 
As through this thorny life they wend, and points me 

unto heaven. 



i2 



103 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE, 

Be with me, Saviour, ia that hour of solitude and gloom, 
That heralds earth's poor pilgrim to the realms within 

the tomb; 
Forsake me not in that dread day when from their 

dusty bed, 
The trumpet's loud and awful blast shall wake the 

slumbering dead! 
Bristol College. 



STANZAS. 

**A morn of sunshine, and a night of storm." 

Behold the wrathful clouds unfurl 

Their blr^kness o'er the golden west; 
And mark the stormy spirit hurl 

His fury o'er the ocean's breast; 
The frail bark now by tempests blown, 

Is hurled upon the rocky shore, 
And the poor hapless seaman thrown, 

Beneath the waves, to wake no more. 

But morning comes — and O how calm 

And beautiful the sun doth rise; 
The zephyrs waft a fragrant balm, 

And blooming earth, and sea, and skies, 
Free from the storm and fitful strife, 

Rejoice as on that blissful day. 
When the creation woke to life. 

By genial heaven's creative ray. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 103 

'T is thus with Ufe, the chilling storms 

Of grief and sorrow madl}' beat, 
In all their wild and hideous forms, 

Where treads the weary pilgrim's feet; 
He launches on life's ocean wide — 

Now peaceful as the lake or rivor; 
But soon is wreck'd upon its tide. 

And dark waves cover him for ever! 

But there will beam a glorious morn, 

When through the undulating sky, 
The Saviour, by archangels borne, 

Shall break the tombs of all that die; 
Then passed the deep waves that roll o'er 

Time's treacherous and eventful sea, 
The just shall hail the blissful shore 

Of undisturbed eternity. 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

"And time with all its chance and change, and smiles, 
In dim and shadowy vision of the past, 
Is seen remote, as country which has left 
The traveller's speedy step." 

The year, the year — 't is past and gone, 

And all its hopes and fears, 
" Have like a morning vision flown" 

Into the silent lapse of years; 



104 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERBB. 

The friends that in its early prime 
Stood near us, — we no longer see, 

Borne on the rapid tide of time 
Into thy gulf, eternity ! 

Alike to them is summer's heat 

That glows upon their verdant bed, 
Or wintry snows that vainly beat 

Their fleecy coverings round the dead ; 
The torrents in their fury dash, 

The loud winds howl, the tempests rave. 
The thunders roar, the lightnings flash — 

But nought disturbs their silent grave. 

Triumphant Time ! from day to day. 

From early morn to dusky eve. 
Thou draggest far from earth away, 

The loved ones that we beg thee leave : 
Thou tarriest not in thy swift flight, 

Though mortal man would beg thee hear, 
But rollest on Death's gloomy night. 

That throws its shadows round his bier ! 

His mighty works that long have borne 

The brunt of heaven for rolUng years. 
The pyramid that braves the storm — 

The castle that no tempest fears, — 
Touch'd by thy hand, relentless Time, 

Their glories canker into rust. 
And tower and monument sublime. 

Become a mouldering heap of dust; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 105 

Tlironcs citits, kingdoms, quickly fall 

Into one universal tomb, 
And ruin spreads her blackened pall, 

To shroud their splendours in its gloom; 
And scarce a scattered wreck appears 

Upon its waste and desert scene, 
To tell of fame in other years, 

Or faded Hnries " that have been." 

But thy dominion, mijfhty Time, 

By heaven's decree will soon be o'er, 
When yonder fires that roll sublime, 

Illume created worlds no more. 
Then shall thy scythe and sceptre fail, 

And hoary Time then backward flee, 
^Mid Nature's universal wail, 

In deathless, dark Eternity. 
Bristol College. 



STANZAS. 

When in the ruddy western sky 

The clouds at summer eve unfold 
Their richest glories to the eye, 

In tints of purple, red, and gold; 
Thy beauty there, O God, I see 

In all its loveliness displayed — 
An:l power that so mysteriously 

The heavens, and earth, and all things made. 



106 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

And when the hoarse storm shrieks aloud, 

And high upon its flashing wings, 
The Ughtning parts the darksome shroud, 

And wakes the awful thunderings ; 
When whirlwinds rage, and mountains shake, 

And wildest tempests rend the air. 
And trembling earth's foundations shake 

Thy power, eternal God, is there ! 

At midnight hour, those trembling fires 

That light the blue dome far above, 
Tell of a hand that never tires. 

And sleepless eye that guards with love; 
The moon — and bright revolving sun 

That pours his warm and genial ray 
On streams that down the mountain run, 

And making fertile valleys gay — 

The river, whose melodious tide 

In gladness laves the golden shores. 
The banks with flowrets beautified, 

The rustling woods, the emerald bowers. 
The ocean, that hath proudly swept 

Its billows since the birth of time, 
And never wearied, never slept — 

Still roUing in its might sublime. 

The whispering grass, and waving tree, 
The buzz of insects tribes in play, 

The mellow humming of the bee, 
In sunshine sporting life away 5 — 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 107 

All things, above, around, beneath, 

In earth or heaven, in air or sea, 
Thy all-pervading spirit breathe — 

Thou vfho dost fill immensity ! 

Supernal spirit, m2iy my soul 

In homage bend before thy throne, 
And own thy just supreme control, 

Who rul'st in majesty alone ; 
All things confess thy power divine 

And yield obedience to thy nod, 
Then let this erring heart of mine 

Be subject to their mighty God! 



THE SHOWER. 

Many a long and weary day, 

Nature hath waited for the shower ; 
The leaf has withered on the spray, 

And faded grown the drooping flower. 
The grain-fields watch with weary eye, 

Each hopeful cloud that floateth by; 
Man looks and mourns — but mourns in vain ; 

From heaven descends no cheering rain. 

But lo ! the hour has come ! the cloud 

With welcome gloom o'erspreads the ground; 

There is the flash ! and hark how loud 
Rolls the terrific thunder round : 



108 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE, 

Drop after drop ! falls full and free, 
On field and forests, rock and tree, 
The clouds rich treasures pours amam, 
And earth rejoices in the rain. 

Thus when the soul has mourned ; — when all 

The plants of grace have seemed to die; 
When the faint spirit's feeble call, 

Has claimed the mercy of the sky: — 
Then the refreshing time drew near, 
The shower distilled ; the dry and scar 
Sweetly revived, and all were seen 
Enrobed again in dewy green. 



HOPE. 
" We are Baved by Hope." 

As o'er the ocean's stormy wave. 

The beacon's light appears. 
When yawiis the seaman's watery grave. 

And his lone bosom cheers; 

Then though the raging ocean foam, 
His heart shall dauntless prove, 

Secure to reach the cherished home. 
The haven of his love: 

So when the soul is wrapt in gloom, 

To worldly grief a prey, 
Then heaven-born Hope sheds o'er the tomb 

Her soul-enlivening ray ; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 109 

And points to that serene abode 

Where weary pilgrims rest, 
In presence of their Saviour God, 

And with his favour blest. 

May I, when sorrow's darkest night 

Shuts out each cheering ray, 
Be guided by this holy hght, 

To realms of cloudless day ! 



SONG OF THE ROVER. 

" The careless rover floats along, 
Slow wafted by the ebbing flood, 
And swells the chorus of the song, 
Which joyous peals from hill and wood." 

Come ! for the morning light is breaking. 

And the night cloud's shadow scuds o'er the dark sea ; 

Come ! for the eagle's his eyry forsaking. 

To soar in his boldest flight, joyous and free ; 

Come ! and be spreading forth over the billow 

Our broad wings of Ught, to the newly born breeze; 

Give our sails to the wind ; for hammock and pillow. 

Befit not the rangers on treacherous seas. 

Come ! o'er the waters, our boisterous home. 
Reposing in calmness or raging in foam ; 
Lulled to sleep in the moon's mild silvery beam, 
Or revealed in storm, by the lightning's red gleam; 



110 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

Still, as dear to the souls of the brave and free, 
As thy sunniest fields, bright Araby, 
To the generous steed which is ranging there, 
Fleet as the winged wind, buoyant as air. 

It is done, we have cleared yon leeward isle, 
And its clifF-girt bay we shall leave awhile — 
Farewell ! farewell to thy lessening shore, 
And thy whispering groves, for the ocean's roar : 
And the looks and tones of thy dark-eyed maids. 
For the culverin's din and the flash of blades ; 
Reckless of danger, and scornful of ease, 
We discover no scenes our mood to please, 
Where the citron breathes forth her soft perfume. 
And the earth is mantled in bud and bloom. 

To recline by the fountain's drowsy flow 
When the sun looks down in his richest glow, 
And breezes are sweeping o'er hills and plains. 
Were to us a dungeon's life in chains ! 

Farewell ! we're bounding in joy o'er the deep — 
For yon fading shore, let the craven weep, 
We shall hail the dawn of the coming day. 
Though its low dim line be vanished away ; 
And in joy expatiate far and free, 
O'er the thousand leagues of our own blue sea. 
Farewell, then, farewell to yon lessening shore, 
And its plashing wave, for the ocean's roar ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. Ill 



THE INDIAN FLOWER. 

The shadows of twilight steal over the sky, 
And the star of the evening has risen on high ; 
The sweet breathing flowers are seeking repose, 
And the dewy-drops moisten their leaves as they close. 

The fragrance they scattered around them all day, 

In the chill of the night-breeze has melted away, 

Like the friends of life's sunshine, whose falsehood is 

found. 
When the cloud of aflliction is gathering round. 

But one is still left us, now blooming alone, 
Whose perfume is richer than all that are gone ; 
It rises from slumber, its sweetness to shed, 
When each child of the daylight is drooping its head. 

So when false friends forsake us, there still are some 

hearts 
That cling to us closer, as pleasure departs ; 
Their smile can illumine our darkened path yet, 
Thoucrh the sun of our fortune forever has set. 



RELIGION. 



Like snow that falls where waters glide, 
Earth's pleasures melt away ; 

They float on time's resistless tide. 
And cold are while they stay. 



113 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

But joys that from religion flow, 

Like stars that gild the night, 
Amid the darkest gloom of woe, 

Shine forth with sweetest light. 

Religion's way no clouds obscure ; 

But o'er the Christian's soul. 
It sheds a radiance calm and pure, 

Though tempests round him roll : 

His heart may break 'neath grief and pain, 

But to its latest thrill 
Religion whispers to the soul. 

In calmness, — " Peace, be still." 



THE FALL OF BABYLON. 

" Athens, and Rome, and Babylon and Tyre, 
And she that sat on Thames, queen of the seas, 
Cities once famed on earth, convulsed through all 
Their mighty ruins, threw their millions forth." 

The night-wind howls within thy bowers, 
Thy pride and strength are gone ; — 

Slumber in dust thy lofty towers — 
Oh! fallen Babylon ! 

The voice of mirth that loudly thrilled 
Within thy halls, — has flown — 

Thy harper's sound of joy is stilled ; 
Oh ! fallen Babylon ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 113 

Where are thy sons and daughters fair, 

That sported in thy sun 1 
Where is thy wealth 1 — thy beauty, where 1 

Oh ! fallen Babylon ! 

Where rose thy walls and lofty fanes, 

Grim Ruin stalks alone ; 
The wild beasts prowl upon thy plains, 

Oh! fallen Babylon! 

Thy seas, where once reflected bright 

The sun-beams smiling shone, 
Now sleep in dark oblivion's night. 

Oh ! fallen Babylon ! 

Long did thy children, plunged in lust, 

The ways of wisdom shun ; 
But humbled now they lick the dust, 

Oh ! fallen Babylon ! 

No more the voice of song, or bird, 

Or harp with thrilUng tone. 
Beside thy flowing streams is heard, • 

Oh ! fallen Babylon ! 

A wail is heard when silent night 

Ascends her ebon throne, 
Where once thou sat'st in raiment bright, 

Oh! fallen Babylon! 
k2 



114 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

It was thy bitter spirit's shriek — 

But now its voice is gone ; 
And thou in vain wilt mercy seek, 

Oh ! fallen Babylon ! 

When storms awake thy solitude, 

The panther's yelling moan 
Tells the lone spot where once thou stood, 

Oh! fallen Babylon ! 



THE FATE OP MAN. 

The violets budded ; they are dead : 
The roses bloomed ; their bloom is fled, 
And nature late so fresh and green, 
In withered glory now is seen. 
Spring, summer, autumn, all are gone, 
Q,uick as the purple of the morn, 
Nor flowret blooms, nor leaf remains. 
To beautify the cheerless plains ; 
Like as the leaves from trees have fled, 
So mortals, to the myriad dead. 

The dead ! ah ! pale and solemn train, 
Why thus intrude ye on the strain ? 
The dark decrees of silent fate — 
Its ravages we fear of late. 
Oh ! ye whose art it is to save, 
Go snatch young — from the grave: 
Or rather thou in whom we trust. 
The great, the mighty, and the just. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 115 

Hear and in tender mercy spare 
The loved one longer to our prayer. 
Bid the dark spoiler's footstep stay, 
Ere stem destruction speed its way. 



Hark ! music wakes. Oh ! cease that strain ; 
It echoes from the tomb again, 
Where those of late beloved now lay, 
Where beauty moulders in decay, 
Where fairest forms are rolled in dust; 
Alas, vain man, how frail thy trust. 
Death sweetest loveliness can blight, 
And shroud the victim in its night. 
His aimless scythe — the great and small, 
The strong and weak, beneath it fall ; 
Nor youth, nor sex, nor beauty know 
Exemption from the withering blow. 

The fields of grain are wreathed in white. 
Before the shining sickles smite. 
The corn its golden sceptre rears. 
Before the husbandman appears ; 
Yet man is gathered to the tomb 
In prime of life, in early bloom ; 
No human power his frame can save 
From the dark chambers of the grave. 

Go youth, and tread where he has trod, 
Who weaves this chaplet for the sod, 



116 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

Where grass and wild-flowers withered lie 
On dust whose beauty caught each eye, 
And warmed the heart, and won the glance 
Of throngs, mid music, mirth, and dance, — 
The fairest and the loveliest. 
In fortune and in talents blest, 
AH gay, alluring, hopeful, bright, 
An instant plunged in endless night ; 
And thou shalt own one truth is clear — 
Vain is the hope of mortals here. 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 

Child — fair child, with the sunny brow 
May thy slumbers be ever as calm as now — 
May thy life's swift stream, as it onward flows, 
Be pure and serene to its evening close. 
Vain were the wish ! e'en now the tears. 
Meet types perchance of thy after years, 
Are stealing down thy placid cheek ; 
And that broken sigh, what doth it speak 1 
Are they tears of woe or tears of joy — 
Say, what are thy dreams, fair sleeping boy 7 

Had I a fairy gift for thee, 

Bright would I weave thy destiny ; 

I would light the devious paths of youth, 

By the bright unwavering lamp of truth — 

1 would lead thy steps from false pleasure's bowers, 

For the serpent lies coiled 'neath her fairest flowers- 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 117 

Of her Circean cup I would bid beware, 
Though each sparkling drop were a diamond fair ; 
Oh, taste not such pleasures, their base alloy 
Will poison thy rest, bright sleeping boy ! 

I would throw ambition's mask aside 
From the aching heart it would seek to hide — 
On the brow where the victor crown was worn, 
I would point to the marks of the piercing thorn ; 
And grasping wealth, with his hoarded gold, 
For which peace of mind was madly sold ; 
I would bid thee list to the lost one's moan, 
When he finds his winged idol flown : — 
Then what should I give thee, thou sleeping boy 7 
The pleasures of virtue that never cloy. 



MIDNIGHT. 

"And midnight holds her dark and solemn reign." 

The slumbering world is still — 
The mist is on the hill — 

Gently sighs the perfumed gale, 

Whispering soft through wood and vale- 
All else around is still. 

The stars their vigils keep — 

The mourners silent weep — 
The silvery orbs the heavens that throng, 
Light through their pathless course along 

The wanderers of the deep. 



118 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

That sleepless eye above, 
O'er nature still doth move, 
And kindly guards the weary head, 
When pillowed on the welcome bed — 
Still holds its watch of love. 

To Him our praise be given, 
God of the earth and heaven — 
When morning sheds its radiant light, 
And day dispels the shades of night — 
Then lift the thoughts to heaven. 



STANZAS. 

"Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth." 

The world with its'glory and pride shall decay, 
The rocks and the mountains like wax melt away, 
The wide -spreading heavens shrink back as a scroll, 
And suns with their systems shall soon cease to roll. 

Heaven, sweet heaven, 
A calm, peaceful home, to earth's wanderer given. 

And man, like the perishing earth-flower shall fade, 
And low in the earth his pale ashes be laid; — 
The form now lit up with gladness and bloom 
Shall moulder to dust on its couch in the tomb. 
Heaven, sweet heaven, &c. 

Unfold then thy pinions for that world on high, 

" Where hope cannot wither — where love cannot die;" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 119 

A region where pleasure unspeakably pure, 
Through ages and ages shall ceaseless endure. 
Heaven, sweet heaven, &c. 

There undying anthems shall melt on the tongue, 
The same that by rapturous seraphs are sung, 
Who warble their worship to glory alone. 
When veiUng their faces they kneel round the throne. 
Heaven, sweet heaven, &c. 

O may we all meet in that home of dehght. 
Not shaken by tempests, nor clouded by night; 
Where the sorrows and griefs that now darken our way, 
Shall be lost in the light of Eternity's day. 

Heaven, svs'eet heaven, &c. 
Bristol College. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG STUDENT. 

" While yet the leaf of life is green, 

The spoiler comes and blasts the tree, 
And scatters ruin o'er the scene." 

Alas he's gone, the fatal shaft has sped. 
And genius lies entombed among the dead : 
Thou whose young heart, with glorious visions high, 
Heaved* like the ocean's billows to the sky — 
Thy sun has set — thy high ambition crushed, • 
And hope's fond visions are forever hushed ; 
Thy life's young dreams, alas! how soon decayed, 
Low in the mouldering sepulchre are laid. 



120 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

The star that lit thy path has set in gloom, 
But still it sheds a twilight o'er thy tomb. 
Pale memory weeps above that lonely grave, 
And deep affections there in sorrows lave; 
There among strangers thou wilt cahnly sleep, 
While friends in voiceless sorrow for thee weep; 
In memory's ear thy name will ever dwell, 
None can forget thee — fare thee well. 



MEMORY. 

"And there were old remembrances of days, 
When on the glittering dews of orient life 
Shone sunshine hopes — " 

As back we sail on memory's stream, 

Through lengthened years of weal and woe ; 
For some sweet spot — some sunny gleam. 

That bears the stamp of joyous glow: 
Aye, backward as we cast our view. 

Appear the gladsome days of youth. 
When pleasure swift on pleasure fisw. 

When nought we knew but love and truth. 

With palsied hand, nor care, nor age. 
Had deeply marked the smiling face ; 

All unrevealed life's chequered page, — 
Unheeded too, time's fleeting pace. 



MISCELLANEODS PIECES IN VERSE. 121 

The past, the present — all forgot, 

Nor dreamt of far-off future years, 
With harrowing misery deeply fraught, 

With burdening cares and sorrowing tears. 

O ! sweet is the rose at morning's dawn, 

When hung with gems of crystal dew, 
But sweeter far when years are gone. 

Seem the bright spots that rise to view: 
We gaze on them in mellowed age. 

And fondly sip from memory's stream, 
The sweets that gild our pilgrimage 

Through youth's fast-fleeting, short-lived dream. 



MISSIONARY HYMN. 

"Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature." 

From many a river's templed bank, 

Where Pagans bend the knee ; 
From continental villages, 

And islands of the sea — 
From every ship that floats the wave. 

And all the winds that blow, 
We here repeat the great command, 

" Go preach my gospel, go." 

Far from the Ganges' rolling tide. 

Where heathen cleanse their sins; 
From Burmah's Isle, deluded spot. 

Where superstition springs. 



122 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

The region of the Simmoon blast, 
Where Niger's waters flow, 

Speaks to our ears the great command, 
" Go preach my gospel, go." 

From distant realms and lands remote, 

Where slavery binds its chains. 
And superstition o'er the mind. 

Its damning victory gains, 
The blood of human sacrifice, 

The deafening cry of woe. 
Remind us of that great command, 

" Go preach my gospel, go." 

On mountains of idolatry. 

Darkness and error lie. 
Behold the millions perishing, 

Fly to their succour, fly ! 
Tell them the Saviour came to save 

From misery and woe, 
Awake ! obey his grent command, 

" Go preach my gospel, go." 



THE EMIGRANT'S SONG. 

"My native land, good night." 

Farewell my loved country, forsaken I wander, 
To seek in some far distant clime a new home ; 

But the dear native land that now fades from me yonder, 
Shall 5till be remembered wherever I roam : 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 123 

When afar I have travelled be3'ond the wide ocean, 
And scenes rich in beauty and splendour I find, 

My heart yet will throb with some tender emotion, 
For the home of my childhood — for scenes left behind. 

But night cometh on, and no more my faint eyes view 

The land of my glory, the land of my birth ; 
Oh ! land of my fathers, how dearly I prize you. 

Thou fairest, thou happiest spot of the earth: 
Though far from thy mountains, still mem'ry shall 
bring me 

The bright sunny days I have passed on thy shore. 
And when fortune shall gather its dark clouds around 
me, 

I'll sigh for the land I adore, I adore ! 



THE VISION. 

The night was dark, and wild and fierce 

The loud winds whistled by, 
The lightning's livid flashes pierced 

The black and troubled sky; 
And 'mid the shock of elements. 

Upon his curtained bed, 
The murderer of innocence 

Reposed his guilty head. 

He slept, but visions horrible. 

Encompassed him around; 
And on his ear harsh voices fell 

With a foreboding sound : 



124 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

Before him in the dismal gloom, 

Enveloped in a shroud, 
A tenant of the sepulchre, 

Its head in mockery bowed. 

And full well then that murderer knew 

The form that met his gaze: 
The sheeted ghost of him he'd slain, 

And well it might amaze. 
Slowly and sadly it drew near, — 

He started from his sleep; 
And o'er his heart a sudden fear, 

Of death began to creep. 

One hand it laid across his breast — 

He struggled to get free, 
But oh! a power held him down, 

Writhing in agony : 
A still small voice, too, seemed to say, 

In token of his doom, 
I come for thee — away ! away ! 

Into the icy tomb ! 

He started from his restless sleep. 

And gazed around in fear: 
The thunder rolling loud and deep. 

Broke awful on his ear; 
Just then there came a sudden flash, 

The phantom of the slain 
Spoke true — the bolt the murderer struck : 

He never rose again. 



MISCELLANEOUS' PIECES IN VERSE. 125 



SPRING. 

"And there are hills of fiock, and groves of song, 
And flowery streams, and garden walks embowered, 
Where side by side the rose and lily bloom." 

Once more I hail thee, beauteous spring, 
Once more thy welcome voice I hear, 

As swift receding o'er the plains, 
The storms of winter disappear. 

1 know thee by thy balmy breath, 
I know thee by these gentle showers, 

I know thee by the tuneful notes, 

That break from yonder leafy bowers. 

I know thee by the wreath of bloom. 

Profusely hung on every tree, 
I know thee by thy mantle green. 

With all its rich embroidery. 

I know thee by the streams unbound. 
That gaily rush from steep to steep, 

As onward still they urge their course, 
To mingle with the mighty deep. 

So time pursues his rapid flight, 
Nor stops to rest where'er we be, 

But hastens on and on to join 
The ocean of eternity. 
'l2 



126 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

Then while the vital spark remains, 
And every pulse is beating high, 

Let us seize the golden moments, 
Cluickly seize them ere they fly. 



CHRISTIAN WARRIOR. 

"What see'st thou here? what mark'st? a battle-field- 
Two banners spread ; two dreadful fronts of war 
In shock of opposition fierce engaged." 

This day shall the Christian v^rarrior ride 

Victorious o'er the battle-field, 
For the Pagan arm shall ne'er abide 

The brightness of his mighty shield ; 
And his fiery sword with conquering hand. 

Shall sweep o'er the bloody plain. 
And the Pagan arms, and the Pagan band, 

Shall be mingled with the slain. 

On warrior, on, for the trumpet sounds 

With a soul-inspiring blast. 
Not a living foe shall here be found, 

When the Ught of day is past; 
And the trumpet of war shall cease to wake 

The dwellings of the blest, 
And the warrior bold shall then partake 

Of the sweets of heavenly rest. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. ' 127 



THE STRANGER'S GRAVE. 

'T IS midnight now, and hushed is every sound, 
The scene around is clothed in deepest gloom. 

All nature now is wrapt in sleep profound, 
The air is silent as the solemn tomb. 

Save where the gentle zephyr softly blows, 
Among the whispering foliage of the trees, 

But scarcely can disturb their deep repose. 
By the sweet murmuring of its cooling breeze. 

Here in this spot oft trod by careless feet, 
The stranger's dust lies mingUng with the soil, 

He lies unnoticed by the passing great. 
Long since forgotten 'midst life's busy toil. 

He lies enchained in silent sleep profound — 
His memory from oblivion's shade to save 

No friendly hand uprears the grassy mound ; 
No vestige marks the lonely stranger's grave. 

Perhaps if happy and secure at home. 
His life 'mid peace and plenty had been spent, 

Friendship had strewed with flowers his peaceful tomb, 
Or fame had raised the beauteous monument. 

But chill misfortune on his prospects frowned, 
Robbed his fond breast of every cherished friend, 

The silver cords snapt which to life were bound. 
And brought him to his sad and lonely end. 



128 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

C eased in his breast life's renovating tide, 

And unlamented here his ashes lie; 
A stranger in a foreign land he died, 

Without the tribute of a single sigh. 

Stranger ! what man but shuns that cheerless name, 
What man but dreads 'mid crowds to be alone, 

A stranger on the world's wide busy plain, 
To be without a friend, without a home 1 

But yet, to every philanthropic heart, 

That name is fraught with tenderness and care; 
It strives to calm the troubled soul to rest, 

And from the bosom pluck the thorn despair. 

With sympathy it soothes the dying breast, 

And when life's last, faint, flickering ray is spent, 

When the closed eye is sealed in silent death. 
It o'er the tomb pours forth the last lament. 

Sleep on in peace, sleep here at last secure. 

You this alone sad consolation have, 
Against misfortune death can close the door — 

Oppression cannot come beneath the grave. 

Perhaps by some chance turn of fortune's wheel, 
He who now pens these short and simple lines, 

May soon, alas ! himself be made to feel 

Sufferings like thine in far and distant climes. 

Perchance bereft of every once-loved friead, 
A houseless wanderer in some foreign land. 

May there too meet his sad, untimely end. 
Receive his burial from some stranger's hand. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 129 

Perhaps in some such plain, neglected spot, 

His silent ashes may unnoticed lie, 
Nor ever cause a sad or serious thought, 

In the cold breast of the chance passer by. 

But if such painful destiny should e'er 
His soul, now buoyant with fond hopes, befall, 

Then may philanthropy there drop a tear, 
And dark obUvion shield him with her pall. 



THE BURIAL. 

A FRAGMENT, 

There was a joy on earth. 



The swallow as it darted swift along, 

Seemed not to heed the waihngs of distress— 

The wild-bird as it winged its upward flight, 

Unmindful was of sorrow and of woe. 

To me the sight of their felicity 

Could bring no gladness: for it seemed to be 

But bitter mockery, and loudly spoke 

Of happy days gone by. The bright blue skies 

Appeared insensible that now they were, 

Sporting o'er hapless ruin and decay; 

That one of earth's fair, bright, and blooming flowers, 

At early morn had withered in cold death, 

And quickly was to lay its little head 

Within its bosom, damp, and icy too. 

I saw the child when in the bloom of health, 



130 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE, 

And lovely innocence and infant joy; 

And when 'twas folded on the mother's breast, 

In all the fondness of parental love; 

But now her first, her last, her only one. 

Reposed in quiet with the slumbering dead! 

Though cold and lifeless, still its pale cheek wore 

The cherub smile of immortality ! 

About it there was nothing of the grave, 

Save of its stillness and its deep repose; 

But beautiful it looked as doth the lamb, 

Decked with a garland for the sacrifice. 

Thou weepest mother, just it is for thee ; 

The son of God wept o'er the silent tomb 

Of his loved friend, and even so raayest thou 

Mourn o'er the coffin of thy pale first-born. 

Truly 't is hard for thee to lay thy child, 

Thy loved and cherished child, beneath the clods 

Of the green valley;, and 'tis hard for thee 

To know those lips will never more press thine, 

In all the warmth of childhood's tender love. 

Ah, those recollections, how they press 

With overwhelming sadness on the soul. 

Memory tells thee that thou art desolate — 

It tells too of the happy, playful smiles. 

And of the throbbings of unspeaking bliss, 

That once were thine, when softly soothing it 

To tranquil slumber and to calm repose. 

And now the cypress will its shelter be, 

And the dark, narrow house its dwelling-place. 

But look, fond mother, on the ways of man, 

And murmur not that God hath made thy child 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 131 

An angel in the regions of his love, 

Safe from the evil of iniquity, 

To dwell with him, the everlastincr one. 



SONNET. 

O intellect! how glorious 'tis to trace 

Thy brilhant progress through opposing storms. 

Darkness and superstition from before thy face 

Are hastening; the fierce and furious forms 

Of bigotry and power, must yield their place 

To hopes and feelings of a lovelier race — 

And bright intelligence unshackled — free. 

Soaring with genius in her boundless flight, 

Scatters the gleams of knowledge through the night 

Of ignorance; and wondering nations. 

Spirits all fearless, 'mid surrounding foes, 

Tear off the mask of error, and disclose 

The path of truth. Amid her dying throes. 

Morning in wisdom dawns, and mists and darkness flee. 



Upon this rock I will build my church and the gates of hell shall not 

prevail against it.— Christ. 

ZiON rejoice; thy king hath said, 
I'll build my church upon this rock, 

Here are her sure foundations laid. 
And earth and hell can harm her not. 



133 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

I am the rock on which she stands, 
Nor shall this basis ever fail; 

Though Satan with his fiendish bands, 
Assail her, they shall ne'er prevail. 

She is engraven on my hands. 

Deep in my heart her name is writ; 

I sought her out in desert lands, 
And saved her from destruction's pit. 

Ne'er shall the purchase of my blood 
Be lost, though hell's dark legions roar; 

She's kept by th' almighty power of God^ 
And every foe shall triumph o'er. 

For centuries she's stood unharmed, 
'Midst persecution's direful rage, 

Jehovah, who her sons hath armed, 
Will shield them still from age to age. 

The church shall see her foes destroyed, 
Their sad condition hear bewailed; 

Her sons to heavenly lands conveyed, 
Shall shout the Saviour hath prevailed. 



"Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." 

Remember now thy Maker 

In the season of thy youth, 
While thy limbs are full of vigour, 

And thy heart of love and truth; 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 133 

While the days of evil come not, 
Nor the years when thou shalt say, 

I have no pleasure in them, 
As they swiftly glide away. 

While the sunlight is not darkened, 

Ere the moon and stars grow dim, 
While no gloomy cloud hangs o'er thee, 

Lift up thy thoughts to Him, 
And while yet there is about thee 

No sign of death's dark hour. 
While thine eyes have all their brightness, 

And thy voice hath still its power. 

While thy courage doth not fail thee. 

Nor thy strength doth yet decline, 
While Ufe in all its glory. 

Around thy path doth shine ; 
Ere like the snowy blossoms, 

On the almond's waving bough, 
Are the thin and scattered tresses. 

That float around thy brow. 

While quick and firm as ever, 

Is thy step upon the mountain, 
While the wheel is at the cistern, 

And the pitcher by the fountain; 
Ere thy doom hath yet gone forth. 

Or the fatal word is spoken, 
Ere the silver cord be loosened. 

Or the golden bowl be broken. 

M 



134 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

Remember thy Creator, 

In the morning of thy days, 
Oh think of Him with gladness, 

And speak of him with praise; 
So shalt thou feel no terror. 

When the dust to earth is borne, 
And unto God who gave it, 

The spirit doth return. 



STANZAS. 



See, how at eve, the western rays, 
With glittering light the Heavens illume, 

Through crimson clouds they love to play, 
Then melt into the midnight gloom. 

See, how the moonbeam's flickering light, 
Along the trembling billow flies, 

A moment charms th' enraptured sight, 
Then 'neath the watery surface dies. 

See, at the edge of Heaven's blue vault, 
The storm his angry powers prepare, 

With furious wrath the earth assault. 
Then fade into the misty air. 

Oft in the silent midnight hour. 

Where angels seal the eyes in sleep, 

We've all but climbed some fairy bower. 
Then dream we' re tumbling to the deep. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN TERSE. 135 

Mankind, thy lot how like to this, 

Destined the woes of life to share; 
Hope often sheds a gleam of bliss. 

Then drowns it in the tide of care. 



TO A RAINBOW. 

Nay, fade not yet ! thou lovely meteor stay ! 

Like to a dream of infancy thou art ; 
As light, as pure, as transient, and as gay — 

Oh, fade not yet ! thou cheer'st my sorrowing heart. 

Thou liest on the bosom of the storm, 
Like as a new-born infant on the breast 

Of some sad parent, where its tender form, 
Pillowed in sorrow, sleeps in halcyon rest. 

Thy beauteous arch that circles the broad skies, 
Reflects its hues down yonder mountain's side ; 

Then sweetly glows beneath the heavenly dyes, 
A pure bright spot while all is gloom beside. 

So I have found within some shipwi'ecked mind. 
When all its graces and its powers were dead, 

One lovely feeling lingering behind, 
That o'er the blank a holy lustre shed. 

But see ! Heaven's lovely bow is rent in twain, 
And now its colours fade ; — and now 'tis gone. 

I cast a wistful eye around in vain — 

Darknes^ returns, the angry storm sweeps on. 



136 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

So for a moment in this world of care, 

Around our souls Hope's fleeting Iris plays, 

And then we smile, and chase the fiend despair, 
And warm our hearts beneath the golden rays. 

But ah, how swiftly the bright vision flies, 
Fate wakes the tempest, and its thunder's roll 

Over our startled heads ; — the spirit dies. 
And darkness, as of death, o'erwhelms the soul. 



THE USURER'S DEATH. 

He was a man of strange, peculiar workmanship. 

Unlike the " comrjon herd" of Earth's proud sons ; 

His fleshless bonec almost protruding through 

The skin that in its furrow folded them : — 

And were it not for his little eye that shone, 

Like some bright diamond in a lump of clay, 

You scarcely would have known he did exist, 

As one of Nature's spurious handy- works. , 

But still the eye — the index of the mind, 

Shone with a clear, unearthly brilliancy, — 

On whose bright page you fain might look, and read 

The very nature, passions, hopes, and fears. 

Of its clay tenement. Mind in him had never taken 

root, . 
And all he knew, or thought, or cared about. 
Was to count o'er the yellow pile of gold, 
Which he had gained by usury from those, 
Whom poverty and want had driven to his door. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 137 

He had no kindred sympathies with men, 

Nor could the bitter tears of misery ever reach 

The chambers of his avaricious heart. 

The varied beauty of old mother Earth, 

When she puts on her garb of richest dye, — 

And the broad, clear, and ever-glorious heavens, 

Lit up vv^ith never-dying lights that burn, 

Like sentinels of immortality, — 

To him were but a blank and leafless book, 

Whose gilded covering might attract the eye, 

But had no power to pierce his callous heart. 

Thus did he live — and when the queen of night 

Threw her soft mantle o'er the virent earth, — 

He sought his miserable and forsaken hut. 

And threw himself upon sl bed of straw, — 

And as the wind moaned through the small key-hole, 

And swung the shutters of his window to and fro. 

He half-raised himself from off his lowly couch, 

And grasped with palsied hand his much-loved keys, 

Then muttered in a stern demoniac voice. 

These words, " Oh rob me not!" — sunk back and died. 



THE POLANDER'S FAREWELL. 

Oh ! Poland! crushed, ill-fated land! 

Thy hopes are past, thy struggles o'er; 
In vain thy sons, a noble band. 

To burst thy bonds have shed their gore; 
No effort now, thy fate can save. 
Thou 'rt doomed to slavery, Poland brave ! 
m2 



138 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

Thou'rt fettered down, my native land — 
The land where Kosciusko trod — 

Where many bold hearts took their stand, 
That now repose beneath the sod ; 

Oh ! happy brave, who struggling fell, 

Ye have not heard your country's knell. 

While writhing 'neath a tyrant's grasp, 
That crushed her, Anaconda like. 

Could nations hear brave Poland's gasp, 
Yet for her cause not dare to strike"? 

Yes; nations heard her frantic calls, 

Yet freedom bleeds, and Poland falls! 

Ye heartless realms ! now freely flow 
Your pitying tears o'er Poland's tomb ; 

We scorn your pity, when a blow. 
In timely aid had saved her doom. 

Had Poland heedless heard your call, 

Too slight a curse would be her fall. 

Though thqu art fallen, Poland brave, 
Within our hearts thou still shalt live ; 

While kingdoms sink into their grave. 
Thy dear bought glory shall survive ; 

No despot's power can wrest the fame 

From thy immortal honoured name. 

Poland farewell ! sworn to observe 
Thy motto, " Liberty or Death," 

From such resolve I cannot swerve — 
I will be free, or yield ray breath : 

No tyrant king shall rule o'er me — 

I go where all for freedom flee. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 139 

Poland! dear native land! farewell! 

Thy hopes are past, thy struggles o'erj 
Arise, ye winds, I wait your swell, 

To waft me to Columbia's shore ; 
I go where great Pulaski fell, 
Poland, land of the brave! farewell! 



THE MAY-MORNING OF OTHER YEARS. 

Ah no! a morn more bright, more sweet, more fair, 

Ne'er kissed the earth, than one that once I knew, 

The first in May. 'T is vain to tell how fresh 

The air, how soft the dew, or say how sweet 

The matin song of early birds, rose on 

The breath of spring, that lovely " by gone" day. 

'Tis vain, ah! yes, for language cannot tell 

How sweet such scenes appear, when the young heart 

Looks on, buoyant with life, and love, dreading 

No change, fearing no chilling frost to blight 

Its hopes, painting its every day to come in 

Rich rays of rosy light; — a brimful cup 

Of joy — yet oh! how often dashed at once. 

Sweet morn ; O ! could I call it back again 

From other years, not far gone by; yet, gone 

Beyond my reach, — O could I call it back — 

And with it those dear ones whose laughing eyes, 

And cheeks, so fair, and ruddy with the glow 

Of health, I'd live it o'er, once, bixH for ever, too. 

O! fruitless wish; for iron-hearted time, 



140 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

And death, fell spoiler, now has ravaged all. 

'T was not enough the precious moment fled — 

The happy group scattered wide o'er earth, 

One, where Atlantic's foaming surges rise, 

One, where dark Erie's sullen waves appear — 

Yet, this was not enough, but pale disease 

And paler death must come, and strike not once, 

But twice, his dreadful blow. O ! yes, 'tis done — 

The deadly shaft is flown — lodged in the heart 

Of one, the life, the soul, of all the group. 

" Insatiate Archer"; throw thine arrows fast; 

Thy race is short ; thy reign is almost o'er ; — 

Already now thy worst is done — what canst 

Thou more 7 Youth, beauty, genius, all thy prey. 

But He who bids successive seasons roll, 

Controls the whole, and bids us live, or die. 

What thoughtless crowds this morn will sally forth 

To pluck the spring-blown flowers; fit emblems 

Of our life, and all its joys; yesterday 

Blooming fresh and fair — to-day the spoiler 

Comes — lops oflf the blooming branch and bears it 

Home, to deck some higher, heavenly court. 

Go, twine your May-blown wreaths, fading as fair. 

But bring them not to me. — It is not meet 

To weave a garland for the dying brow. 

Or deck the dead with flowers. Then take them hence- 

For I've no other use for nosegays now — 

Since, here and there, my loveliest, fair est friends, 

Like gathered fowers neglected, fading, lie. 

Ye light of heart, ye giddy gay, O ! pause — 

And think, how many a foot that lightly 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 141 

Tripped the last May-morn, how many a hand 
That gaily wore the wreaths; how many eyes 
That laughing shone, are dark and silent now, 
Wrapped in the pall of death. The green grass waves 
Above their narrow bed; the cypress sighs 
In the spring-laden breeze; they heed it not. 
The verdant sod, the snowy sheen, alike 
To them no changes bring. It may be so 
With us ; the next May-morning beams may fall 
Upon our graves. How fooUsh then, how base 
Such mortals to be gay, — Mournful picture ! 
Is there no brighter side 7 aye, there's a clime 
Where seas are always calm, skies always fair; 
No baleful, blighting blasts sweep o'er that land — 
No frosts, no clouds, no storms, will reach us there; 
An island of the holy and the blest, 
Celestial joy and everlasting rest. 



SONNET. 

SUNRISE. 

The gorgeous banners of the God of day 
In the gay East stream gloriously now ; 

The mantle of the valley floats away 

To wreath its folds around the mountain's brow: 

Earth hath awoke to gladness, and her streams 

Are brightly glancing in the morning's beams. 
Oh! 't is an hour for man's proud soul to bow, 



142 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 

In undissembled worship, at the throne 

Of the Omnipotent, Eternal One! 

Jehovah! highest! hoUest! mightiest! Thou 

Hast formed this fair creation — and the things 
That dazzle earthly eyes, are feeble rays 
Of thy own glory — and as now I gaze, 

Fancy is lost in wild imaginings. 



RURAL PLEASURES. 

Soon as Aurora opes the day, 

The birds, the robin, lark and sparrow, 
In simple, artless, pleasing lay, 

Invite to plough,]to hoe or harrow; 
And all day long, with cheerful notes, 

The fields, the woods, the air is ringing, 
With music from their warbling throats, 

By their melodious merry singing. 

Now sallies forth the busy bee, 

And gathers up a store of honey, 
From every blooming plant and tree, 

As misers often hoard their money; 
By instinct taught, the little ant. 

Without a king to guide, or tutor, 
Provides against her coming want, 

And lays up stores of food for future. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 143 

The water-fowls below the hill, 

In streams and placid pools are gliding; 
From mountain sides, in murmuring rills, 

The waters gently now are sliding; 
To see the birds from spray to spray, 

And lambs beside their mothers prancing, 
Is pleasing more than feats of play, 

Or merry mirth and graceful dancing. 

The landscape now is drest in green, 

And all arrayed in gayest flowers; 
Such beauty of a king's not seen, 

With all his lofty boasted powers. 
Now fragrance sweet perfumes the air, 

We breathe 'midst blooming flowers and roses. 
Now children dear, and damsels fair, 

From hills and vales, are gathering posies. 

When labour of the field is o'er. 

And moonhght evening is not chilling, 
Our minds may then with rapture soar; 

We hear the pleasing sounds most thrilling. 
In time of night, when all is still, 

The wakeful nightingale is singing; 
And varying notes from murmuring rill. 

From tribes in pools, the zephyr's bringing. 



144 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE. 



FRAGMENT. 

What is Memory'? 'T is the light 

Which beacons Ufe — a ray profound 
Upon the brow of mental night — 

An echo, — time the passing sound — 
A mirror— its bright surface shows 

Hope, fear, grief, love, delight, regret,- 
A shadowy shore — a beam that glows 

Long after sun and stars have set, — 
A leaf, nor storm nor scathe can fade, — 

An ark on time's bereaving sea — 
A perfume from a flower decayed — 

A splendid mine is Memory. 



THE END. 



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